


Can You Take Me Back

by lovely_rita



Series: Cry Baby Cry [1]
Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Also sad babies, Angst, Crying, Depression, Domestic Violence, Drug Use, Fluff, Heart Conditions, Hitchhiking, Hospitals, John is a cute baby, Lots of it, M/M, Minor Character Death, Miscarriage, Paris trip, Period-Typical Homophobia, Self-Harm, Smut, Suicidal Thoughts, Surgery, Violence, Why did I do this to them, also there's no actual sex until they're both 18, i know i surprised myself with that one, i promise i will redeem them in another fic, i promise it has good parts, inability to write without their accent, jim and mary aren't that nice in this, okay i think thats it, so is Paul, sorry - Freeform, sorry Ringo's not in it until later on, this gets sad guys, this makes it sound so depressing, yes you know the one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-01
Updated: 2020-03-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:54:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 63,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22911301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovely_rita/pseuds/lovely_rita
Summary: By week three John’s still not called and Paul's sure he didn’t make the band. He’s sure his dad’s an alcoholic. He’s sure his brother can’t sleep without being burdened by nightmares. And he’s sure his mother’s nearly dead.
Relationships: John Lennon/Paul McCartney, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Series: Cry Baby Cry [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1651273
Comments: 35
Kudos: 89





	Can You Take Me Back

**Author's Note:**

> Here we go! Oh my god, I am way too nervous. I've been working on this for over six months, like I really need to get a life.  
> But anyway, I've done SO MUCH RESEARCH for this fic, so most of the main events are of things that actually happened, only I've twisted them slightly to fit the storyline. Also, I am not a doctor, and even though I've done a lot of research I can't say that anything is accurate.  
> I've also hidden quite a few different song lyrics throughout so see if you can spot them :)
> 
> PLEASE READ THE TAGS!!!!!!  
> I can't stress enough how important is it that you read the tags because I don't want anyone to be triggered by anything. 
> 
> Anyways, I know this is long and you probably want to murder me for not putting it into chapters, but please enjoy and let me know what you think :)

It’s a surprise.

For how much he had been moving and kicking around in his mother’s stomach, it’s a surprise when he comes out cyanotic, stiff and struggling for breath. The doctors mess with him, constantly prodding and poking and leading him away from his mother; his mother he hasn’t even known five minutes before he’s whisked away for examination.

With sad faces, he’s handed back to his parents, a promise of ‘ _not long now_ ’ falling from the doctor’s lips, leaving the mother and father with shattered hopes and a little blue child who’s not going to live.

Tears land on his face as he’s cradled between both their arms and they think it’s the last time they are ever going to be with him.

\--

Paul makes it to the age of three, passing all the milestones he’s meant to miss and more. He’s still blue, still going to the doctors every other week, but he’s here. His parents are the happiest, constantly wrapping up the child in tight hugs, kissing him and telling him how proud they are.

How proud they are that he _lived to see another day_.

\--

At the age of eight, he encounters his first bully. The boy is twice the size of him, his hair slicked back into some sort of quiff and his sleeves rolled up and his tie undone, and Paul instantly knows he can’t fight back even if he tried.

_But nobody wants to know him, they can see that he's just a fool._

The medication he’s on has made him slightly chubby, puppy fat staying and clinging to his arms, middle and on his soft cheeks making him look adorable. Well, at least that’s what his mother tells him. The boy calls him ‘ _fat’_ , and even as lame as the insult it, it still punctures a hole through Paul and leaves him crying in the school bathroom. He feels like he’s been struck in the chest with every snide remark as he walks through the school corridors. He feels their cold stares on him constantly, and he just wishes they’d find something more interesting to look at. Wishes that he could get on with school and not be scared that someone’s going to take his lunch or corner him on the way back from school on Penny Lane. He’s fresh out of his fifth operation, and his arms are weak from being on bed-rest for so long, and sometimes he loses the strength in his legs when he’s running away and falls. He can tell in their curled smiles that he's easy prey, and he'd fight back if he could. 

But he can't. 

The amount of times he has come home with a black eye makes his mother cry, and he doesn’t want that. Then again, he would rather see her cry than look at him with a blank stare, trying to remind herself that her son is still alive, still here.

At this point in his life, he’s become a waiting game for both his parents. They don’t want to get their hopes up, and the doctors are still telling them the same thing they were told when he was born. So the sight of his mother practically counting down the days until his death is disturbing.

And it never stops.

It creeps him out, and he tries to ignore it as best as he can.

\--

When Mike grows up a bit, things get somewhat better. Paul can speak to him, tell him about his school work and the bullies and the girls that laugh at him, and Mike _listens_. He’s the closest thing to a friend Paul has, and he’s grateful that his younger brother will happily sit there, playing with his toys as Paul plays a Little Richard record and rants about how he wishes he was in big school already.

He knows his grades are slipping a little, but he can’t find it in himself to care when there are so many people picking on him constantly and his chest still hurts when he breathes and he is on too many types of medication to count.

But he’s alive.

He’s not sure if he’s supposed to be.

\--  
He comes home late after being tackled and punched against the back fences of the school, and when he gets home there’s silent disappointment in his father’s eyes and he’s sent to bed with no tea. He lies awake, his chest on fire. He ignores it and rolls over, shoving his face into the pillow with a silent scream and a tearful whimper.

_Cry baby cry. Make your mother sigh._

He doesn’t fall asleep that night.

His eyes stay on the cracked ceiling, counting every rip in the plaster and watching the small leak drip and hit the bucket at the end of his bed. He thinks about running away, leaving everything behind. It seems like a good idea in his eight-year-old brain, though the only obstacle would be his brother. He loves his brother, and he doesn’t know if he has it in him to leave.   
He can hear his mother soothing his crying brother in the next room. She’s singing a lullaby, one Paul can never remember being sung to him. 

He cries harder, wishing he has the same parents his brother has. 

\--  
He swings his legs backwards and forwards as he sits on the exam bed, the doctor running a stethoscope over his chest as he breathes deeply. It still hurts, but they say he’s doing better. 

They change his medication and he gives a small smile to the doctor as he leaves the room alone, shoelaces trailing after him.

\--  
He turns nine and his mother gives him a guitar, wrapped in newspaper with a false smile. He hugs her still, trying to keep at least a part of their family together. When she wraps her arms around his waist and tells him she loves him, there’s a warm feeling in his chest, replacing the simmering pain, and he thinks this must be how the other kids feel. He thinks this must be how _Mike_ feels.  
He pulls away with a smile then looks at his father. He frowns and tuts “ _Mary I told ya not to give ‘im that. Education comes first._ ”  
Paul ignores him and grins back at his mother before retreating upstairs to show Mike what he got, dreaming of playing it to hundreds of people in the glow of a spotlight. 

  
_Windswept child on a shootin’ star._

  
The ache in his chest is enough to remind him that the dream is just a dream, and he slides his fingers over the strings in hopes they’ll give him some sort of ambition.

\--  
Sometimes, when he’s scuffed his knees running too fast or being beaten down in the playground, he expects for his blood to be blue. For it to show that he’s some ugly, alien thing that’s blue and can’t breathe and can’t stand his ground. His mother tells him to forget about the kids. The ones that call him names and leave him wheezing with a broke nose. 

  
He doesn’t think he can.

\--

He gets a paper in his english class graded an A after writing his own idea of a perfect family, and comes home triumphant with a certificate. He tells his mother but she won't reach his eyes and instead continues talking to Mike like he's not there. 

The certificate is ripped up and he dumps his school ambitions in the bin.

\--

He doesn’t know how and decides it must be sheer luck, but he scrapes through his 11 plus exams and makes it to ‘big’ school. The Liverpool Institute’s full of big kids, ciggies hanging from their mouths as they walk around the grounds with a leather jacket pushed over their blazers. It’s intimidating, especially with no friends, but he pushes through anyway, the same as he did before.   
The baby fat starts to drop off him, and he can’t be more thankful. It doesn’t seem to deter the name calling though.  
Many of the kids comment on how he’s always blue, and why he doesn’t join in for sports. He always shrugs and ignores them when they snicker behind their fists.

 _'Why should they know?_ ' he thinks, kicking a pebble with his shoe as he walks to his class. 

No tie and late again.

He starts to get the bus after a while when the days get colder and he can’t walk in the rain. He notices a boy sat at the back, hair pushed up mimicking a quiff and a blank expression as he stares out the window. He’s got no leather jacket, and he looks younger than Paul, so he sits next to him, shrugging his dog-eared bag to the floor by his feet.  
The boy turns to him with a slight smile and an eyebrow quirked, and Paul stumbles to introduce himself. 

“I’m Paul.”

The boy hesitates and glances over him. “George.”

They sit in silence, and he expects that George probably thinks he’s a weirdo like everyone else and that he’ll get up and sit somewhere else in fear of being grouped with him. That is, until George turns to him again. 

“So Paul, ya like rock and roll?”

Paul inwardly sighs with relief, thanking whoever’s up there that he had at least something in common with this boy, and it seems as if George is talking to him like a _person_. It shocks him a little a first, how George doesn’t seem to be bothered by the sight of him, but he smiles softly and replies. 

After a while, George always leaves a seat for him, and they chat about the new single Buddy Holly has released and what instruments they want to play and what they’d call their band if they had one.

“I’d call it ‘George and the Hound Dogs.’”

Paul laughs, whilst George feigns shock, puffing out the smoke from his cigarette through his nose.

“Ya listen to Elvis too much.”

Being with George makes him feel less alone, and it’s different than spending time with Mike because George actually _likes_ the things he’s into.

With George, he’s able to talk down to him a little because he’s older, not by much, but it gives him what he thinks is an upper hand. Because then if George is ever to turn on him, he’s already one step ahead. He’d tried it with Mike, back when they should’ve been four and six but acted like they were eight and ten, but Mike’s not as compliant and shot Paul down with a few snickered words that still hurt Paul now.

The younger boy has something about him that makes Paul feel comfortable, almost as if George actually is his brother, and the more time he spends with him, the more he forgets about the packed bag under his bed. 

\--  
When he refuses to eat his lunch at school, the teacher sits him down and tells him its better if he eats and that he’s only doing himself harm by not. There’s a scowl on the teacher’s face, and Paul is in a ballsy mood and says he knows that not eating _is_ what’s best for him. Because he knows the minute the taste of food enters his mouth, he’ll have to stave off the urge to throw-up. 

“But you’re a child, and you can’t really know what’s best for you.”

It’s the last straw for Paul, because how can the teacher he only sees three times a week possibly tell him what’s best for him, but doesn’t mention how neither of his parents turn up to parents night, nor does he ever receive a permission slip signed to do anything fun. Surely, those aren’t what’s best for him. But the teacher obviously doesn’t understand. 

He tells the teacher to fuck off. 

When he gets home he doesn’t mention the lingering bruises on his wrists because he knows they won’t care.

\--  
When he hears the news it's from behind the kitchen door, and he grabs Mike by the wrist and they disappear upstairs. He can’t cry in front of his mother. 

Not now. He won’t.

\--

“You should come. Got a friend who’s into rock and roll too.”

Ivan, the boy he sits next to in English class, keeps bugging him to go to the church fair that weekend where the skiffle band ‘The Quarrymen’ are playing. Ivan seems nice and ignores the jeering words of the others telling him he’s hanging out with the school freak. Paul supposes he must feel sorry for him, if his pitying eyes are anything to go by, but at this point, Paul’s just glad he doesn’t have to go the whole school day alone.

Their conversation is interrupted by the smack of a hand on Paul’s desk, and both boys duck their heads from the teacher hovering over them. They sit in silence, shallow breaths over wooden tables, and Paul can hear people sniggering behind him, but the teacher just tuts and walks back to the front.

Paul finally relents and tells Ivan he’ll go, not caring that he hasn’t asked for permission from his father. Anything’s better than watching his mother wither away on the front room sofa.

\--

He sneaks out on Saturday with Mike when his dad’s passed out on the sofa with a bottle of whiskey tucked gently between cold fingers and his mum’s at the hospital for a check-up that Paul’s always scared she won’t come back from. He drops Mike off at his friend’s house, promising to pick him up before the street lamps turn on.

He makes his way to the bus stop on Penny Lane, wishing he had asked George to come with him, and rides over to Woolton, thanking the driver who lets him get on with only a threepence.

He’s glad it’s quite warm because his coat’s got another hole in it and he’s too embarrassed to wear it out until he can sew it back up. It’s the same coat he got when he was ten, a gift from a relative he can’t quite remember the name of, and the sleeves are tight and don’t reach his wrists and yet he doesn’t dare ask for a new one. The sun beats down at him, and he has the awful thought that it might burn the gel in his hair and he’ll have to leave with his hair on fire. _A silly thought from a silly boy_ , he thinks, the idiom from his mother a blatant brand on his thoughts.

There’s a lot of people, and there are bright coloured balloons and cakes and banners and for a moment he just wants to go home. But he doesn’t. Ivan sounds like a nice guy and he wouldn’t want to back out of something he had spent all night thinking about. Thinking about the freedom of going without someone to watch over him and tell him when he’s had enough.

After standing around looking like a lost puppy in the middle of the crowd, he spots Ivan and hurries over to him with a smile.

“Hey, s’looking for ya,” Ivan tells him when Paul approaches, a grin settling on his lips. Ivan pats his shoulder, but Paul doesn't really know how to reply.

“C’mon, want ya to meet a friend of mine,” he says, beckoning Paul to follow him. Paul does what he’s told, though somewhat hesitantly, and follows Ivan as they weave amongst the clumps of cheery guests.

They stop in front of a small gang of guys in leather jackets and teddy boy hair cuts and Paul just feels like he could shrivel up and run away at the sight of them. Ivan slaps a hand onto one of the guy’s back who’s turned away from him and murmurs something as his eyes flick towards Paul and then the boy turns around and Paul instantly thinks he’s in _love_.

Followed by the feeling of vomiting in his own mouth because how the hell could he love a boy? He’s not queer, not a poof like the bullies at school say, and he bites his lip as their gazes meet.

The boy gives an endearing grin and lifts an eyebrow, hands plucking at the guitar hung low around his hips, and Paul knows he's stared too long at the way his hips sway slightly to the simple rhythm. His eyes drift to the hands strumming at the guitar and he frowns. Before he’s even aware of what he’s doing, he’s walking up to the guy with a bout of confidence, still frowning, and says “ _You do realise you’ve tuned that in G banjo chords_.”

The boy laughs, almost intimidatingly with his head tilting back slightly until he gives half a nod. The laugh makes Paul cower slightly, and he can’t tell if it’s enthusiastic or the type of laugh he hears through the floorboards in the middle of the night.

“I know. Me mam taught me and she can only play the banjo.”

Paul gives a small smile and steps closer, though is very aware of the space he leaves between them.

“I can show ya how to tune it if ya want.”

Paul really has no clue why he thought he could talk to someone older than him, or a ted for that matter, but the guy seems nice and Paul likes the sound of his voice. He talks to the boy for a while as he tunes his guitar, and the boy thanks him with gusto.

“Do ya know how to play then?”

Paul looks up at him with wide eyes before nodding. He does know how to play, but he only practices in the confines of his bedroom where no one can hear him, so to actually play in front of someone is frankly disconcerting. The boy nods to his own guitar, gesturing for Paul to use it. Paul takes a deep breath, ignoring when his chest gives a slight twang, and takes the guitar from the other’s hands. He turns it upside down, earning a scrutinising glance.

“Left-handed,” he mumbles, waving his hand in the air as if to validate what he’s doing.

He looks up, clears his throat, and plucks the guitar. He plays his own rendition of ‘Twenty Flight Rock’, watching as the boy’s jaw practically smacks the floor and a few of the other guys turn around to see him. He sings his heart out, _almost_ , before he finishes with a grin and a bow and a wheeze that causes the onlookers to frown.

He hears the applause and he can feel his cheeks turn red. He hands the guitar back to its owner almost shyly, who in turn sticks a hand out for him. Paul takes it.

“I’m John.”

“Paul.”

They’re still gripping each other’s hand in a slight handshake and Paul never wants to let go.

“I think we’ll make good friends.”

\--

He doesn’t hear anything for three weeks.

The first week his mother has taken up permanent residency in the hospital as she gets worse. He hates going. The smell of hospitals gives him the creeps, and he’s been in them enough times to say it definitely isn’t a happy place. He follows his dad, who’s stumbling down the corridor, with his little brother’s hand grasped in his own as Mike cries and wails. Mike doesn’t want to be there either.

The second week the doctor tells them to be prepared. Any day now. It’s funny because he’s sure the doctors told his parents the same thing when he was born, though he doesn’t think the same fate awaits his mother. He has her limp hand in his own whilst Mike is asleep in his lap, his face hidden against Paul’s chest. Paul doesn’t look at her. He doesn’t want to. He wants to remember when she looked healthy, and no matter how many times he thinks she doesn’t love him, he has _always_ loved her. And he can’t watch her weaken day by day knowing it should’ve been _him_.

By week three John’s still not called and Paul's sure he didn’t make the band. He’s sure his dad’s an alcoholic. He’s sure his brother can’t sleep without being burdened by nightmares. And he’s sure his mother’s nearly dead.

He’s locked himself in the bathroom. His dad is out, god knows where, and Mike is sleeping restlessly in his bed after Paul had let him cry against him for what seemed like hours.

There’s a mirror in front of him but he doesn’t look up. He knows that he’s still blue and pale and his hair’s gone haywire and the slight shadow of stubble is starting to form over the softness of his cheeks. But he doesn’t care. Not anymore.

His eyes land on the razor lying on the sink, and before he can think he’s taken it and he’s sitting back down on the toilet seat. He doesn’t know how long he sits there, but he takes the metal towards his arm and cuts. He doesn’t feel it at first, the pain, but he watches in satisfaction as his blood flows out _red_. He’s still alive. He watches it drip for a while, splattering the tiles below with red rivulets until he’s had enough. He stands, pulling his worn shirt over his arms as he scuffs his feet against the tiles, removing the evidence of anything ever happening before he turns the lock and retreats to his bedroom.

His sleeve soaks up the blood and he’s glad when his dad doesn’t see him bury the shirt in the black bin bags downstairs the next day.

\--

He’s the one to give Mike the news. He tells him that their mother has gone up to be with the angels but she’ll always look out for them. It seems to comfort Mike somewhat, knowing his mother is in a happier place, and Paul’s just glad he didn’t have to tell him how it happened.

He packs a few of their things in the middle of the night and sneaks out with a sleepy Mike in his grasp. It’s dark and cold but even from the end of Forthlin Road, he can still hear his dad’s rampage.

After half an hour of pulling a tired Mike through the Liverpudlian streets, he arrives on George’s doorstep.

George’s mother, Louise, ushers them both in without a word. They sit on the sofa, Mike’s head in Paul’s lap as he dozes, and Louise hands Paul a cup of tea with a worried expression.

Paul hasn’t said a word yet, but Louise doesn’t seem to mind. She bends down in front of him and moves his hair out of his face with a small smile, and he supposes she’s trying to mother him like his mother would’ve. If only she'd ever done such a thing.

“I ‘eard about yer mother Paul,” she says quietly, as though her words would hurt more if she uttered them any louder.

Paul nods, his head still down, and he hears her sigh.

“You can stay ‘ere as long as ya like Paul. I promise we don’t mind. George will be happy to ‘ave someone around.”

Paul nods again and looks up slightly, meeting the hazel eyes of Louise. He’s unsure of what to say but settles on a broken ‘ _thank you’,_ and the gratefulness feels foreign on his tongue.

She smiles at him, wider than before, and stands back up.

“We’ve got a spare bedroom upstairs you two can share. Have it for as long as you need.”

He hates being a burden.

\--

Paul hates to think it, but he’s sure his mother was more prepared for his death than her own.

He doesn’t quite know how to process that other than with the sharp end of his dad’s razor blade.

\--

He stays at George’s for a week before he decides that he and Mike should go home. They haven’t been to school either, and Paul knows he hasn’t got long until his exams and he can’t afford to have so many days off if he wants the teachers to help him. Even if his mother has just died.

George and Louise had been very accommodating. Louise had made them eat all their meals and had made sure that Mike had someone to talk to other than Paul after having more harrowing nightmares. George had sat with Paul on the first day in silence. His mother had let him ditch school to spend the day with him, and though Paul didn’t say much, he was glad George was there.

He's scared to think what he would’ve done without him.

He hasn’t spoken to his dad since the day they left, and he isn’t exactly expecting a welcome return. The door is unlocked when he arrives. He’s left Mike back at George’s place until he knows every thing’s alright. And _safe_. He finds his dad passed out in the corner of the living room. There are smashed bottles and glasses everywhere, and the framed picture of them as a family back in ‘52 where his mother is smiling is ripped to pieces on the floor. Paul sighs, so deeply he hears his lungs rattle and his heart smacks against his rib cage.

He cleans away the shards of glass and the smashed bottles, flinching only slightly when a jagged end slices through a fingertip. He watches the blood drip from it longer than he should before he runs it under the tap and bandages it up with a plaster he finds in his mother’s old medical kit.

By the time he’s finished and the house is more liveable, he hurries back to the Harrison household to pick up Mike.

“Are ya sure ya don’t wanna stay longer?” Louise asks softly, giving Paul a warm hug. The hug is nice, and he doesn’t think he’s ever had one that felt so honest from his own mother.

Paul shakes his head and pulls away. “I’m sure. Me da’s probably going mad with worry. Thank ya though Mrs Harrison.”

She smiles at him sweetly, like she doesn’t quite believe him, and pets at his hair like he’s her own son, though there’s still concern lingering in her eyes.

“Ya can come here anytime Paul. Both of ya are welcome.”

\--

Paul gets sick a little while after, and though he knows it’s just a common cold, his skin is even bluer than usual and his heart thumps against his chest as though he had just run all the way back from school. Which he hadn’t.

Paul knows that Mike knows something’s up. Mike may be only thirteen, but he’s not gullible.

Their dad hasn’t spoken to either of them properly since they got back, and Paul doesn’t know whether to take is as a blessing or not. Instead of listening to his dad drawling on about how sick his mother is, he now spends the nights clearing away empty liquor bottles and scrubbing the carpet to try and get rid of the burn marks his father leaves after falling asleep with a cigarette in his hand. It makes him think one day the carpet will catch fire instead of just singeing, and he wonders if his father would even save them. _A silly thought from a silly boy_

He hardly sleeps, and he hardly remembers to eat after he’s done his chores and made sure that both his brother and father have eaten a decent amount of food. He’s constantly going, wired to the point that he can’t stop. Because if he stops his dad will shout. If he stops his brother will cry and tell him he wants his mother. If he stops he doesn’t think he will have enough vigour to carry on.

So when Mike finds him slumped over the dining room chair, face pale and dark eyes, Paul knows he knows something’s up. Instead of asking Paul what’s wrong, Mike hauls his brother out of the chair and up the stairs, hearing his chest crackle and heave with every step. He puts him to bed, remembering a time when Paul once did that to him, and prays that it’s just a cold.

Paul knows Mike doesn’t want to be the one to ask their father to take him to the hospital after what happened on their last visit.

\--

Sometimes he forgets what his mother’s smile looks like.

He tries to remember the last time someone smiled at him, and feels devastation crawl into his skin and rip at his insides.

\--

After four weeks, Paul finally gets a phone call.

He’s sitting at the foot of his bed with a record playing quietly in the background, mouth chewing around the end of a pencil as he prepares for his upcoming exams. As soon as he hears the shrill ring of the phone, his head shoots up from where its been dangled over his revision books and legs it to the phone at the bottom of the stairs before anyone else can answer it.

As he picks up the receiver, he prays it’s not someone else and mumbles a hesitant and breathy ‘ _hello_.’

“Is tha’ Paul?”

Paul recognises the voice straight away and he lets out a breath of relief.

“Yeah ‘tis.”

“ 'Ey its John Lennon. Come to 251 Menlove Avenue tonight at eight.”

Paul could’ve cried. He had thought he’d forgotten him.

“Yeah ‘kay. I’ll be there tonight John,” he replies, trying to pass his voice off as collected and casual rather than the uncontrollable excitement that fizzles in his chest. He's not a little kid, and he doesn't want John to think that either.

John hangs up with no reply, but Paul’s too happy to care. His heart races against his chest, and he knows if he doesn’t calm down he’ll end up with heart palpitations that can hurt really bad if he isn’t careful.

His hand flies to his chest and he takes a deep breath.

He’s done it. He’s in.

\--

As soon as it gets to about half seven, Paul makes sure Mike is ready for bed and is tucked away in his room before venturing downstairs to make sure his dad is passed out. When he finds him on the chair in the living room, a bottle of beer hanging from his slack grip as his head bows forward, Paul breathes a crackly sigh of relief before signalling to Mike that he’s going out for a while.

He shuts the door quietly, his dad’s house key heavy in his pocket, and walks away from the house with his ears open for any sign that his dad had heard him leave. By the time he’s near the end of the street he hasn’t heard anything, and so continues to John’s house, guitar strapped to his back as he makes his way down the road.

It’s only a few streets away, though he supposes it would’ve been easier to catch a bus than walk, but he doesn’t have the money and the anxiety already riddles him as it is and he doesn’t want to stress about finding the right bus when it’s already half dark.

His pace is hurried and he enters the right street after he realises he’s late. He desperately looks for the right house, and find it’s quite a big house compared to his own, with large gates that open onto the driveway. He opens the gate, praying it won’t make a noise, and walks down the driveway to the large door at the front of the house. He scuffs his boots on the floor to get rid of any dirt, the action drilled into him from a young age because ' _you can never be too polite Paul_ ', then takes a deep breath.

‘ _I can do this_ ,’ he thinks and then he’s pushing down on the door handle.

The smell of smoke hits him immediately and he splutters, looking around the small crowd for a familiar face. He doesn’t see John and he internally panics, and it must have shown on his face when Ivan gives a big smile with eyes that say ‘ _you’re fine, you’re at the right place_ ,’ and slings an arm around his shoulder, wary of the guitar on his back.

“Guys, this is Paul. He’s joinin’ the band.”

The chatter dies down almost instantly, and Paul feels eyes on him from everyone in the room. He squirms uncomfortably but stays in Ivan’s hold, plastering a fake smile on his face.

“Ey’ what’s Lennon said about this then?” one of the boys asks, and Paul shrinks under the stares of the older boys.

“He’s the one that’s asked ‘im to join,” Ivan replies, earning a grunt in response from his bandmates.

Paul sighs and Ivan takes his arm back from around Paul’s shoulders.

“It’s just ‘cause yer younger. When ya play for ‘em they’ll be different.”

Paul just nods and hopes that Ivan’s right because he doesn’t want to join a band where only two members want him there.

A loud crash and a shriek signals that John is in for a rollicking, and Paul watches as he quickly lurches into the room and shuts the door.

“Alright?” the tallest asks him, and John huffs out a breathy laugh.

“I knocked a painting off the wall on ma way down. She’s already got ‘er slipper off.”

They laugh, and Paul laughs too despite not knowing what’s particularly funny about being beaten with a slipper by your own Aunt. He guesses he just sees things differently, as everyone else is treating it like an everyday occurrence. His mother must have thought him too weak, and his father must not be bothered in disciplining his own children. He keeps laughing anyway. 

As soon as John spots him, his eyes light up and he walks himself over to him with a sense of swagger that Paul would be jealous of if he didn’t know him any better. It makes out that John is a bad teddy boy who’d beat up a kid for being on the wrong side of the docks, but the John Paul met at the fate wasn’t like that. So instead of feeling intimidated like he does towards the other boys, he smiles. John nods towards the guitar on his back and smiles back. The smile makes something swirl in his stomach, and he dips his head quickly when he realised a blush has crept on his face.

Before Paul can say anything, John’s reaching for his guitar saying “ _come on Paul. They wanna hear ya play._ ”

Paul slides the guitar from his back to his chest and plucks a few notes before looking up at John with wide eyes.

“Don’t be a pussy, Paul. Get on with it and show ‘em what ya got.”

Paul lets out a breath and launches into the first half of ‘Twenty Flight Rock’ before moving into ‘Be-Bop-A-Lula’, blasting out his voice like it’s the last time he’s going to sing. He realises he’s closed his eyes and he opens them to see the band crowded around him as if he’s the most interesting thing they’ve seen all day. Looking at these older boys watching him so intently makes him beam, and the confidence surges through him, making his voice steadier and it earns a lot of shocked faces from the audience, including John.

When he finishes, he wheezes slightly, earning a concerned gaze from both John and Ivan, though neither say anything as the rest of the bandmates roar to life.

“How did ya play like tha’? Ya played it like it was bloody made for ya,” the tallest exclaims, before giving John a pat on the back.

“I agree with ya lad. He’s a gooden’”

Paul puts his guitar down and when he turns back around, John is staring at him. Paul meets his eyes and they hold it, and Paul does his best not to get flustered from such a look from John. John breaks the eye contact with a smile before he’s pushing through the small crowd of people, telling them to get ready for the first rehearsal.

Paul stands there, his skin grey after playing by himself for so long, and his thin coat not keeping him warm enough, but he smiles anyway, watching as everyone sets up their equipment to start playing.

This is his _dream_.

Paul can’t be happier.

\--

He’s nearly caught, the blood dripping from his arm as he watches the bathroom door handle move down. He holds his breath and stills, watching as the door opens slightly only for it to shut again, and he hears voices and footsteps walking away.

He sighs and cuts again.

\--

Their first gig is a week after in a small pub in Woolton, and Paul arrives late _again_ after his dad had drunkenly tripped over a chair in the kitchen and Paul had to make sure that the bump to his head wasn’t fatal, and that he was only slurring his words because he’d drank too much.

He dropped Mike off at a friend’s house so he could sleep there for the night whilst he's away, not trusting him to be looked after properly by their father.

They’re already on stage when he arrives, setting up their instruments, and John pulls him to one side, asking ‘ _what took you so long?_ ’ and Paul can only reply with ‘ _home stuff_.’

As if it was as simple as that. But he can’t exactly tell John that his dad is a raging alcoholic who doesn’t care for his kids anymore. So he keeps his mouth shut when John gives him a disapproving glance and stumbles after him onto the stage, the floor sticking to the heels of his shoes.

He makes it through the set, and he turns his eyes to John who’s singing into a mic at the other end of the stage. John turns his head to briefly glance at him, flicking his sweaty hair out of his face as he smiles, and Paul smiles back, keeping his guitar steady as to keep in time with John, though his chest starts to tighten and his breath starts to catch. He doesn’t know whether it’s because he is actually having pain or if it’s because of the way John looked at him; eyes that glimmered with something he can’t quite place and it makes his stomach flutter.

When they finish, Paul strums one last note on the guitar and then bows with the rest of them. It’s only when he walks off stage that he realises something’s wrong. He still can’t seem to catch his breath, and Shotton comes over and puts a hand on his shoulder, telling him he’s _‘looking too pale_ ,’ and soon his darkening vision lands on John who’s stood in front of him, concern flashing across his face before he’s grabbed a hold of Paul’s wrist and dragging him out of the dingy bar and into the fresh air outside.

Paul gasps as the cold hits him, and he bends over slightly to regain his breath, still quite aware of the fact that John still has a firm grip on his wrist and eyes watching him carefully.

“I’m fine,” he splutters after getting some air into his lungs, but John just lifts an eyebrow and lets go of his arm. Paul misses the warmth of John’s hand but doesn’t comment.

“Sure ya look bloody fine. What the hell happened, Paul?” John’s voice is loud, and Paul can’t tell if it’s from anger or fear.

“I jus’ never done it before. Nerves got to me, y’know?”

John continues to look at him with an arched brow but nods his head slowly, and Paul releases a sigh of relief.

“I think I’m jus’ gonna go home. I’ll see ya tomorrow yeah?”

He watches as John sighs.

“Yeah sure, Paul.”

John turns to walk back into the bar before stopping, and Paul doesn’t know whether he’s stalling to tell him something or he just doesn’t want to go back into that dreadful bar again. John turns to Paul, who’s waiting patiently for his answer with nerves eating away at him. Maybe he’s going to get kicked out of the band. He wouldn’t be entirely surprised after the stunt he just pulled.

“I…Jus’ make sure yer okay yeah? I don’t want ya keeling over on me the next time we play.” John lets out a breathy laugh after, not one that causes a smile to approach his face, but it lets Paul know that he isn’t holding what happened against him.

Paul just smiles and nods before watching as John heads back into the bar, thankful that he hasn’t been kicked out.

Though, Paul wants to do anything but go home.

He has no choice though. He has to go take his medication before he feels worse, and the only way to get it is to go home and face his father.

Hopefully, he’s still passed out on the floor in the kitchen where he left him.

The house is bleak and unlit, and as he steps through the front door, he can almost hear the rollicking he’s going to get from his dad for being out without his permission. But it’s silent.

He turns the light on and shuffles down the hall, greeted to the sight of his father still slumped on the frigid kitchen tiles. He lets out a breath and turns to go up the stairs to put his guitar away but freezes.

“It should've been you y'know.”

Paul doesn’t move. He doesn’t want to walk away like a coward, but he doesn’t want to turn to face the monster that’s in a heap on the floor by the cooker.

“She wouldn’t have died if it hadn’t been for you.”

The gruff voice makes him shiver slightly, and he digs his fingernails into the palms of his hands. He pauses, and after nothing else is fired at him, he replies, ‘ _well at least she died knowing I loved her. Can’t say the same for you.’_

He doesn’t dare turn to look at him, too scared of what will be looking back, and instead carries on towards the stairs, practically feeling the anger radiating from his father.

“She never loved you, James. Nobody does.” It’s sneered, and Paul ignores it. He knows it’s true. Hell, he’s known his whole life.

Paul slams his bedroom door and tucks his desk chair under the handle. He can’t bear a fight when it’s still hard to get a good breath in. He places his guitar at the foot of his bed and slumps down on top of the sheets; all signs of defiance flowing out of him as tears start to prick the corners of his eyes.

 _It should’ve been you_.

He buries his face in his hands and stifles a sob. He couldn’t get through the gig. He’s disappointed John. And now he has an angry father living at the bottom of the stairs that he’s got to deal with sooner or later.

He scrubs his face with the back of his hands before lying in bed, uncaring of the fact that he’s still fully dressed. He realises he’s forgotten to take his meds, his whole reason for coming back home, though now he couldn’t care less. He supposes he deserves the pain anyway. He watches the ceiling leak into the bucket at the end of his bed and he thinks, not for the first time, that maybe things would’ve been different if his mother was still alive.

 _She never loved you, James_.

He closes his eyes and hopes that this band thing will work out and he can get away.

He needs to get away.

\--

He used to close his eyes and get scared.

_What if it’s the last time? What if he doesn’t wake up again?_

He doesn’t think he cares anymore.

\--

He shrugs his bag over his shoulder, keeping his tattered coat tight around him, and keeps his head down as he walks past a group of teddy boys who have decided to take up residence right at the front gate. He’s not in the mood to get into a scrap, it’s freezing and he doesn’t want to be late to catch the bus again, so he keeps his head down to avoid making any eye contact with them. He walks into a few people and mumbles apologies through numb lips, causing a few people to tut and one even has the nerve to throw their leftover lunch at him. He doesn’t turn around though. 

He wants to be on the safety of the bus where he can talk to George, and he’s finally going to tell him about the band. They’ve only played two more gigs, but he feels as if it’s going somewhere, and he thinks he might be able to get George to join.

By the time he’s shuffled his way to the bus stop, he looks up and spots a familiar face, leaning against the lamppost with a ciggy hanging from his mouth. Paul frowns.

“ 'Ey what’re ya doing ‘ere? This ain’t yer bus,” he asks, which causes John to laugh and take the cigarette from his mouth. Paul doesn’t see what’s so funny, and his frown deepens.

“Jus’ come to see ya s’all.”

“Oh. Right,” Paul replies. He doesn’t know exactly what to say. He supposes John’s doing this to make him feel part of the band, but he doesn’t need a pity friend. He sighs.

“If yer ‘ere to make me feel welcome or somethin’ then ya can go home. I’m fine.”

He watches as John scowls, before flicking his cigarette to the floor, and straightens.

“I ain’t ‘ere for the band Macca. I jus’ came to see you.”

John looks down instantly, and Paul wonders if it was the cold or a blush that had reddened the other boy’s cheeks.

“Oh okay,” Paul replies, because he doesn't know what else to say. 

“Y’know, ya can’t half play the guitar. I’m glad ya joined. If ya wanna hang out sometime ya know where I live,” John tells him with a small smile.

Paul finds it funny. This teddy boy, known to be the toughest in the area, clad in leather with a quiff to be jealous of, is asking to hang out with _him_. Talk to _him_.

“Yeah okay John,” he replies, and the bus pulls up but he doesn’t want to go. He smiles at John, who smiles back, before turning to climb the bus steps, only he stops and swivels his head around.

“Thanks.”

John’s smile grows and he gives a small wave as Paul gets on the bus before walking away.

George is looking at Paul with confusion as the older boy sits next to him.

“Who was that?” he asks before Paul can even put his bag down.

“John,” Paul replies, as if the answer is obvious, and George squints at him.

“I thought ya had no friends?”

George’s eyes are still on him in that judgy way that will cause Paul to spill whatever he’s not saying, and Paul finally lets his bag fall between his legs before turning to the boy next to him.

“He’s in my band.”

“Yer in a band?”

George’s eyes go wide and Paul has to stop himself from laughing at the sight.

“Err yeah. I joined the other week. John’s the leader. He’s nice.”

“Nice?” George asks, quirking an eyebrow. “He’s a fucking ted, how can he be nice?”

Paul laughs and sits back in his seat. “Well, he is. I’ll ask if ya can join.”

George smiles and Paul adds “Though I doubt they’d want ya when you play a guitar with no A string.”

George barks a laugh and shoves him. “I told ya my da’s gonna fix it.”

“Yeah yeah.”

They break into a fit of giggles, and George hands Paul something wrapped messily in newspaper. Paul raises an eyebrow in question and George grins. 

“I ‘eard it was yer birthday a few days ago an’ I missed it. So, er, happy birthday Paul.”

George sounds nervous, but Paul can’t be happier. This is the first time he’s had a birthday gift from anyone other than his brother since his mother died, and it instantly sparks a feeling of gratitude he can only wish to repay. He unwraps it to find two brand new plectrums, and he beams, resisting the urge to hug George and instead settles on clapping a hand on his shoulder.

“That’s gear, George. Thanks, mate.” He means it with the most sincerity he can muster, and George gives a wide smile.

The bus stops and Paul stands up, waving with a promise of ‘ _see you tomorrow_ ’ before he’s off and on his way home.

\--

John has become somewhat a prominent figure in Paul’s life. And Paul doesn’t even know how it started.

Soon after the meeting at the bus stop, John had taken a likening to Paul and met him there most days, and Paul eventually decides he would go visit.

He treks there one evening after making sure Mike is okay, pulling his jacket sleeves tight over his arms, but instead of hanging around John’s house, John takes him by the hand and leads him to a small piece of land that had been abandoned a while ago.

“Where are we?” Paul asks, a smile not dropping from his lips.

“Strawberry fields. It's my place y’know? I normally come ‘ere alone,” John says. Paul can only nod, wondering why John would take him to such a personal place, before John is yanking his arm again, and they stop underneath a tree where John then sits, legs out in front of him as he leans back on his elbows. Paul stays still for a second, looking down at John who’s comfortable on the grass. He can’t take his eyes away from the other boy. The sun is low and filtering through the tree, causing a gleam on John’s hair, which no longer resembles a quiff but instead hangs low over his face, and Paul can't get over the fact that he looks so _normal_. Paul’s heart’s beating too fast. He thinks it’s going to jump out his chest and run away, and his thoughts are swirling around his head but are silenced as soon as John’s eyes meet his.

“What ya staring at?”

Paul just shakes his head and looks down, a blush spreading across his face before he sits next to John, mimicking the position of the other boy.

They stay in silence for a while, but it’s comfortable and Paul can’t remember the last time he was this relaxed. He sighs blissfully under the shade of the tree before tilting his head towards the other boy, who looks deep in thought with a serious expression adorning his face.

Paul wants to say something, ask if he’s alright, but he doesn’t. He just keeps staring until John turns to him.

“Paul?”

His voice is small, conflicting the usual gruffness, and not something Paul has heard before. It scares him a little but he clears his throat and replies, eyes not looking away.

“Yeah?”

There’s a hesitation before John sighs and his eyes dart away from Paul.

“I’m just gonna come right out with it. I like ya, Paul.”

Paul’s breath leaves him and he instantly feels a state of excitement hit him like a train. _Queer_. Its sneered in his head, and he almost believes it, almost wants to leave John there and never speak of it, but then John starts to babble ‘ _you don’t have to be friends with me Paul, you can go_ ,’ and Paul can’t help but shut him up by leaning over and pressing his lips against the other’s. John’s startled by the reaction, and frankly so is Paul, but pushes back against Paul’s lips, creating a dance only the two of them will ever know.

John’s kiss is like rain in the summertime, as if it has the power to take and give back life with a single change of heart. Paul wonders if every man kisses like this, or if it’s just John, but he can’t help but think it must be much better than kissing a woman. He can feel John’s stubble brush against his cheek and the taste of cigarettes swirling in his mouth. He doesn’t ever want to stop. He pulls back for air with a grin, and John’s still got his eyes closed. They’re still so close, if Paul leans any more forward they would be touching foreheads, and he giggles causing John to blink his eyes open with a crooked smile, his teeth peeking from between his lips.

“Take it ya like me back?”

Paul laughs and their lips are colliding again, and he’s glad they’re in a secluded area where no one can see them because he never wants to stop. He’s never felt something so loving and passionate and he can’t seem to get enough.

They pull away again and Paul rests his forehead on John’s shoulder, who wraps an arm around Paul’s waist to bring him closer. They stay like that for a while, huddled together in silence before it starts to get darker. John places a small kiss on Paul’s head.

“I really do like ya, Macca,” he whispers.

_Give your heart to somebody._

Paul looks up from where he’s been hiding his face in John’s shoulder and gives a timid smile, almost afraid of his answer.

“I really do like ya too, Johnny.”

_Soon, right away, right away._

\--

Paul eventually convinces John to listen to George to see if he can join the band. George is already waiting outside the school gates when Paul finishes school, and they walk their way to the bus stop to meet John, who looks as if he’s been standing there all day. He looks over to them and sighs, flicking his cigarette to the floor with a miffed expression before walking over to them.

“Took ya bloody time didn’t ya?” he grumbles, and Paul frowns because they haven’t taken any longer than they usually do. Instead of saying anything though, he shrugs and looks over to George, who he expects to be cowering under the aim of John’s glare, but who is instead looking at him with a bout of pride, his guitar slung over his shoulder and a small smile tugging at his lips.

In a fit of annoyance that George hasn’t given in to his stare and ran away, John purses his lips and walks away, a fresh cigarette dangling from his mouth. Paul is quick to catch up with him and nudges his side before George can catch up too.

“What the hell’s in to ya?” Paul whispers hastily, watching as John lights the cigarette and puffs out the smoke.

“Nothin’,” John mumbles, turning his face to look ahead rather than at Paul. Paul sighs, and feels George come up next to him before there’s a tap on his shoulder.

“Was’ up with ‘im?” George questions quietly, and Paul looks at him, contemplating an answer that would suffice to make George leave the subject alone but would mean he had to lie, therefore he just shrugs because he has no other answer to give him. He doesn’t understand why John’s in such a bad mood when they’ve only just met up.

They carry on down the road until they hit the small field, usually occupied by the sports activities the school holds, but is currently empty apart from a few younger kids kicking a ball around in the longer part of the grass. They trudge through the thick field until they get to the bench situated under a tree and half in an overgrown bush, out of sight of any onlookers on the field.

John slumps down on the bench, his leg crossing over the other and the ciggy clinging to his lips, his eyes narrowing on George as the younger boy stands in front of him, moving his guitar so that it’s in his hands. Paul sits next to John and nudges him slightly, which makes the other look over to him. Paul gives him a look, his eyes suggesting he ‘ _be nice_ ’ if he wants to stay on good terms with the both of them. John looks at him for longer than he should’ve before looking back at George with his expression softened.

“Go on then son. Lets ‘ear ya.”

George nods and looks over nervously at Paul, who gives him a wide smile and a thumbs up, mouthing ‘ _you can do this_ ’ to make him feel more comfortable. George smiles back at him, though somewhat forced, and takes a breath and begins to strum at his guitar.

Paul watches as George’s fingers fly across the strings, plucking them in the perfect rhythm to ‘ _Guitar Boogie Shuffle_ ’, an instrumental that George had told him he's sure would include all of his skills in. Paul flicks his eyes over to John, who has changed position so that he’s sat forward, elbows resting on his knees and his head turned to the side and downwards slightly to listen to the guitar properly.

With a final pluck, George is done and he smiles as Paul claps enthusiastically, standing up to give him a pat on the back.

"Tha’ was great. Weren’t it John?” Paul says, slinging his arm over George’s shoulder.

John is silent for a few minutes, and Paul takes his arm back, smile desperately trying to cling to his face as he realises maybe John hadn’t liked it as much as he did.

George looks over at Paul, nervousness and uncertainty tainting his face, but Paul can only smile in reassurance.

John clears his throat and all eyes are back on him.

“That was good lad. Really good.” John’s eyes are downcast, and Paul knows instantly that there’s more. There’s something John’s not saying.

After a pause, George speaks up. “But?”

“But yer just too young lad. Yer only jus’ fifteen an’ I don’t think it’s fair to tha’ rest to let you in when yer so young.”

“But I’ve only just turned sixteen, and I was fifteen when you let me in.” Paul pipes in, stating the obvious fact as to why John’s theory of George being too young is unjust.

“Yeah, but ya were nearly sixteen, Paul. That’s different. I ain’t arguing with ya on this.”

He stands and stubs his cigarette out under his shoe and into the wet grass beneath, before walking over to George and giving him a pat on the back.

“Yer good. Really good. I jus’ wish ya were a bit older thas’ all.”

George doesn’t look up at him though, and so John turns his attention to Paul.

“I’ll see ya later alright?”

There’s something in his eyes that looks as though it might be contrite, but its blinked away before Paul can pinpoint it. He nods and John lingers there for a second before he walks away, leaving Paul with a disheartened George in the muddy field.

Paul turns to George, who still hasn’t lifted his eyes from the floor, and says “ ’M sorry George. I didn’t think he’d say no.”

George looks up at him and sniffs, wiping the back of his sleeve over puffy, red eyes. “S’okay Paul. I wasn’t gonna get ma hopes up anyway.”

He steps forward before looking back at Paul. “I’ll see ya ‘round, yeah?”

There’s a significant pause, then Paul nods.

“Yeah.”

He watches George walk away, and stays there, thinking how maybe he just screwed two friendships up in one go. He kicks a few pebbles lying amongst the grass before it starts to rain. He doesn’t have a coat, and soon he’s walking back home with his hands in his jacket pockets and head lowered, his clothes soaked through completely.

He gets home to a raging father who, unfortunately for Paul, hasn’t drank enough to be passed out yet like he'd hoped.

He gets a rollicking and a slap before he’s sent to his room with no dinner. He can hear Mike crying through the wall, but he doesn’t dare leave his room.

He’d rather his brother cry himself to sleep than him having to witness their father’s alcohol-blinded rage for the second time that night.

\--

Paul wakes with a start, fear instantly catching in his throat and a hand flies to his heaving chest. He waits a second before running the hand through his hair, desperately trying to even his breaths out when he realises there’s nothing to be scared of. He lies back down and stares at the ceiling, watching it leak into the bucket at the bottom of his bed. He knows they’d never fix it, and he doesn’t think he’d be bothered enough to do anything about it himself when it gives him something to watch when he’s thinking.

After a few moments, he hears a knock on the window but brushes it off to the wind and the old frame. Though as soon as he hears it a second time, he knows something’s up. He yawns and climbs out of bed, careful of the creaky floorboards and the sheets of music and lyrics scattered over the floor. He’s quick to pull a jacket on, pulling it flush over his arms, covering fresh pink lines. If John asks, he can just say he’s cold.

He peaks through the thin curtains and squints, just able to make out the figure of John in the dark. Paul frowns and lifts the window up.

“What are ya doing ‘ere?” he asks, trying to ease his shout into a whisper in order to not wake up the rest of the house.

“Come to see ya s’all,” John shouts back, and before Paul can even understand what’s going on, he sees John start to climb the drainpipe that leads to his window. As soon as he’s in reach, Paul pulls him up so that he doesn’t topple over and off the pipe, and he helps him climb through the window.

Paul notices John’s in his usual jacket, but he’s got a shirt underneath with the two top buttons undone, revealing a gold chain around his neck that Paul hadn’t noticed before. It makes him wonder about all the small details that he’d missed or never asked about, like whether he got his eyes from his mother or his father, and if he needs glasses from the way he’s always squinting, or-

“Paul?”

Paul realises he’s been staring and his face goes flush, and instead of trying to make an excuse, he leads John to sit down on his bed.

“What r’ya really doin’ ‘ere Johnny?”

His voice is hushed and John catches on quickly that his voice needs to be kept quiet too. They’re sat facing each other, and John lays a hand on Paul’s leg before he looks up and says “M’sorry ‘bout George, Macca. He was really good I just can’t justify his age y’know.”

There’s a pause and Paul smiles kindly, placing his hand over John’s.

“Yer a soft git ya know.”

John chuckles quietly, but instead of slapping Paul’s hand away, he tangles their fingers together, and it makes Paul look at him like he’s hung the moon.

Paul watches as John blushes slightly under his gaze, and he scoots closer so that he can rest his head forward into the crook of John’s neck, whilst John circles his arms around his back. He stays cradled in John’s arms for a while, relishing in his warmth and letting himself be comforted until John speaks, and he peaks his head up from where it’s been hiding.

“Tell me somethin’.”

Paul frowns, and makes a face that states that John needs to elaborate if he wants an answer.

“Y’know, tell me somethin’ I don’t know about ya,” John states as if it was obvious in the first place, and Paul nudges him playfully.

“I dunno. I mean my real name’s not Paul if tha’s what ya mean,” Paul tells him, making the other’s eyebrows shoot up into his hairline, and Paul for a moment think he might have misunderstood what he’d been asked. Before he can stutter out a different reply, John answers.

“What? What is it then?”

Paul laughs at John’s bewildered expression and replies “James is my first name. So my real name is James Paul McCartney.”

John stifles his giggles with his hand and looks at Paul with a wide grin.

“Ya don’t look like a James”.

“Yeah I know tha’s why I call myself Paul ya tosser.”

They break into a fit of subdued giggles, John muffling his laughs into Paul’s shirt as he leans forward to rest his face against his chest, while Paul has a hand on his back, desperately trying to keep quiet.

The chuckling dies down when Paul remarks that it’s John’s turn and so John sits up, the last few giggles echoing in his chest.

“The chain I wear around my neck is from me ma. She gave it to me when I was fifteen and I haven’t taken it off since. I don’t see her much y’know so it’s like she’s always with me.”

Paul smiles warmly, and reaches his hand out to John’s neck, silently asking whether he can touch it. John nods and Paul scoots closer as the jewellery slides between his fingers.

“It’s lovely, Johnny. I like it.”

He pulls away so he’s inches away from John’s face and John smiles before planting a chaste kiss against Paul’s lips.

“Yer so pretty Paulie. Give us another,” John breathes against his lips, and Paul laughs before diving down for another that lasts longer and leaves them both breathless after.

When they pull apart, Paul starts to skate his fingertips over John’s jawline and down over his shoulders, the other boy giving a satisfactory hum when Paul traces his fingers down his arms and onto his hands.

“Can I ask ya somethin’, Paul?”

Paul hums and keeps his fingers steadily gliding over the skin of John’s hand, feeling every joint and callous on each finger.

“Why d’ya always look ill? Yer always cold an’ ya look a funny colour in certain lights. I don’t mean to pry or anythin’.”

Paul keeps his fingers moving over John’s skin, contemplating an answer before he falls upon the idea that he can’t lie to John. Not his Johnny, who only ever exposes any vulnerability to him and only him, and he wouldn’t want to mess that up over a stupid lie when he knows the truth will be out at some point anyway.

“My heart’s knackered Johnny. Born like it and I’ll die like it. But I’m okay at the minute I promise.”

John looks briefly distressed before he clears his throat, lowering his eyes to look anywhere but Paul.

“So will it make ya die?”

Paul sighs and stills his hand, letting it rest against John’s forearm. “Yeah, it will.”

John looks up at him then, tears pooling in his eyes.

“How long?” It comes out a lot quieter than the rest of the conversation, and his eyes become unguarded in a way Paul has never seen before. It makes him feel nervous, and he desperately doesn’t want to hurt John, but he knows the truth will be better than lying, even if it means upsetting him.

“They said I was gonna die when I was born. But ‘ere I am. I don’t know when I’m gonna go Johnny or how long I’ve got but I’m okay for now.”

He clamps his hands over John’s and doesn’t break the eye contact.

“I promise.”

John nods and sniffles before pulling away, wiping the back of his hand over red eyes.

“Fuck I need a ciggy.”

He pulls out a pack and lights one before offering one to Paul. Paul’s never had one before, but he guesses he’ll start now when it’s just he and John.

He lights his from the end of John’s ciggy and holds it between his lips before taking a breath in. He expects it to be smooth and flow through his lungs with no problem like John does, but instead his lungs contract and he splutters and coughs.

“Don’t worry son. You’ll get used to it. Ya just gotta keep goin’.”

Paul coughs again but nods, taking another puff which seems to be easier and he manages to blow the smoke out comfortably.

John smirks at him and takes a drag of his own. They turn and sit with their backs leaning against the wall, their shoulders pushed against each other, so that the smoke travels towards the window that’s still open a crack.

“I ‘ave ta go in a minute Macca,” John says, looking over at Paul whose still smoking his cigarette carefully.

Paul looks over at him glumly before stubbing his cigarette out on a scrunched up piece of newspaper. John does the same before standing up, altering his jacket and zipping it up before placing a kiss on Paul’s lips.

“See ya tomorrow yeah?”

Paul’s nods and replies before John’s out the window, offering a sweet smile before moving down the pipe and into the dark. Paul gets up to watch him leave before shutting the window and getting into bed.

He doesn’t have any more nightmares that night.

\--

The day Stuart is introduced to him, Paul becomes something he didn’t know he had in him, and he’s overwhelmed by only one emotion. _Jealousy_.

Paul goes to John’s after school, and he knows that John will be in because he’s skipping school most of these days anyway. George is meeting him there in an hour so they can go and watch a new band at the pub, so Paul knows he has to hurry if he wants to spend more time with John.

When he gets there, Mimi lets him in with a slightly-forced smile. He knows she thinks he’s a bad influence, but it doesn’t bother him much because it doesn’t stop her from letting him visit.

As he’s walking up the stairs he hears two voices and stills. One is definitely John, but he can’t tell who the other one is. It doesn’t sound like anyone from the band, and Paul’s sure John doesn’t know anybody else well enough to invite them into his home.

He takes a deep breath, glad his chest is having a good day and not rattling around, before going into John’s room.

John is there, sat on the bed with a cigarette in his hand, and looks up and smiles warmly at him. Paul then sees another boy sat on the bed opposite John. He’s blonde and pimply and doesn’t look like any of the types John would usually hang out with.

Paul strains a smile, praying it looks genuine, but John lifts an eyebrow and Paul is sure he knows something’s up.

“Paul this is ma mate Stuart.”

Paul’s eyes flick from John to Stuart, and he can’t quite decide what exactly he’s feeling but he knows it not positive.

“Stu this is Paul. He’s ma best mate so ya better be nice,” John says, smiling to make it sound like he’s joking, though Paul hears the warning in his voice. Stuart holds a hand out and Paul hesitantly shakes it before pulling it away and making a hand movement to John meaning ‘move over’, proceeding then to sit next to John, though not as close as he wants to be because they don’t want to give off any suspicions.

“I can’t stay for long anyway. George is meetin’ me in a bit.”

John’s eyes linger on him for a second before he nods, taking a puff of his cigarette, and turns back to Stuart.

Paul watches as they talk about what seems to be Stuart’s latest work, which makes him conclude that this must be a friend from the art college John goes to. He doesn’t quite pay attention to the conversation, and he can feel himself begin to bubble over with envy and so he knows it’s better to keep his mouth shut.

John gives the ciggy to him and Paul takes it gratefully, their fingers brushing slightly as it’s passed between them, and Paul knows that’s the only physical contact he’s going to get with John today.

Paul stays in silence, humming slightly when John asks for his opinion. He can’t help but feel a little angry; this was supposed to be his time with John.  
After a while, he realises he has to go and meet George, and so passes the cigarette back to John and climbs off the bed. John looks at him questioningly and stops his conversation with Stuart, causing the other man to turn to him too.

“ ’ave to go meet George,” Paul says, and John nods.

“Yeah okay Macca. I’ll see ya later yeah?”

Paul would do anything to just kiss John there and then, but he can’t risk it with Stuart being in the room. So he just smiles politely, before throwing a _‘yeah’_ over his shoulder as he walks out the room.

He’s still fuming even after he’s left the house, though realises he’s a bit early and so walks up the road a bit where he can see George walking towards him.

“Alright?”

Paul just huffs and George laughs slightly.

“Guess tha’s a no then.”

Paul stops to light a cigarette and leans against a brick wall, scuffing his shoes against the gravel.

“Went over to see John an’ he had someone there instead didn’t he?” Paul says, the words sounding even more bitter when spoken out loud, and he looks down at his feet, before feeling George stand next to him against the brick.

“Why did that matter? Was he not alright?” George asks, and it causes Paul to sigh, cigarette held between shaky fingers.

“Tha’ was the problem. He was fine.”

George goes quiet, and Paul looks up, offering the ciggy to the younger man. George takes it and places it between his lips before looking around, glad it’s nearly dark and there’s no one about.

“Can I ask ya somethin’” George questions, fidgeting slightly with the cigarette, and his eyes flick to look at Paul.

Paul looks at him for a minute, trying to judge how this conversation is going to go, before nodding.

“Are you and John more than jus’ friends?”

Paul feels his breath catch in his throat and he coughs slightly, wincing at the pain it erupts in his chest. So much for this being a good day.

“Yeah,” he replies quietly, turning away from George, though the guitarist still has his eyes on him.

“Are you queer then?”

“What? No. I still like the girls. But John… I love John. It’s different.” George just nods and Paul feels him shift next to him until he’s pulled into a hug. Paul is stunned for a second before he wraps his arms around the younger man, relief flooding him as he takes comfort in his friend.

“I’m glad you can tell me, Paul,” George says, and Paul can only hug him tighter.

\--

They’re in John’s bed, lying shoulder to shoulder and passing a ciggie between them. It’s quiet, and John is rubbing his thumb slowly over the back of Paul’s hand between their bodies.

Paul hears John sigh after a while and feels him shift onto his side to face him, plucking the cigarette from between Paul’s lips. Paul watches him take a drag before blowing the smoke through his nose.

“What’re ya thinkin’ about Macca?”

Paul gives a faint smile. “Jus’ thinking’ s’all.”

John raises an eyebrow, encouraging Paul to go on.

“Thinkin’ ‘bout George.”

“Should I be worried that yer thinkin’ ‘bout another lad when yer in my bed?”

Paul giggles and takes the ciggie back from John before taking a puff then stubbing it out in the ashtray on the floor, causing a ‘ _hey_ ’ from John.

“Aye Johnny, I’m seeing ‘im too y’know.”

Paul laughs at John’s attempt to stifle him with a pillow, and they end up wrestling until Paul’s on top of John, knees either side of his hips.

“S’why ya thinkin’ ‘bout George then?” John pants, his face red from either laughing or from being squished from under Paul’s weight.

Paul looks at the other man and internally sighs. He doesn’t know whether this conversation is going to go well, and he skates his fingers over the broad expanse of John’s clothed chest, contemplating how to break the news.

“I told George... ‘bout us.”

Silence.

John is watching him intently, and Paul can’t quite read the emotions flitting over his face. He pauses his movements, and instead splays his hands over the other’s ribs and keeps them there.

“He doesn’t mind. He’s even happy for us. An’ he won’t tell anyone.”

That seems to assure John that nothing bad will happen with George knowing, and so he just smiles lovingly.

“It’s fine Paul. As long as he won’t tell anyone,” he replies, earning a kiss from Paul, the younger leaning over him and placing his hands on either side of his face.

“He won’t Johnny. I tried trust ‘im,” Paul says against his lips, and John places a sloppy kiss on Paul’s cheek before abruptly rolling Paul off of him, consequently making him fall off the side of the single bed.

It’s so quick Paul is still trying to get over the fact that he’s got John’s saliva stuck to his face before he’s lying on the floor, winded.

John is laughing so hard, it sounds like he’s struggling to breathe just as much as Paul is, and the younger boy sees him peek his head over the edge of the bed.

“Ye alright down there son?”

“I’m gear,” Paul wheezes, obviously not gear, and it makes John laugh harder. Paul doesn’t want to dampen John’s mood, but that fall probably wasn’t the best thing for him, and he knows that tomorrow his chest will hurt like a bitch. He doesn’t say anything though and instead takes two even breaths before pulling himself up and onto the bed, tucking himself back down next to John.

“Y’know yer meant to ‘elp someone up after you’ve chucked them off yer bed,” Paul grumbles, earning a nudge from John.

“Yer the one that bloody fell off mate. Wasn’t my doin’,” John replies, holding his hands up in surrender after Paul sends him a threatening glare.

Paul closes his eyes, glad his breathing is somewhat back to normal and feels John pat his head before carding his fingers through his hair.

Paul is content just to lie there and he turns his face to nuzzle softly at John’s jaw. There’s something about the way John makes him feel that Paul just can’t get enough of, and he realises that he doesn’t know what he’d be without John. It’s a dark thought, and he knows he shouldn’t be so reliant on someone, but their unhealthy codependency has made a beautiful relationship, and so Paul can’t be too worried. He just hopes it doesn’t come back to bite him in the arse.

\--

John takes Paul to meet his mother.

Paul has only ever heard of her a few times, however, she sounds lovely from what John had told him previously.

They walk there after school, the house only being a few streets away from John’s, and she greets them both with a wide smile.

“I’m guessing yer Paul?” she asks sweetly, to which Paul nods and holds out a hand for her. She smiles at him kindly before taking his hand and shaking it, her well-manicured hands contrasting with Paul’s bitten and slightly dirty nails.

“It’s nice meetin’ ya Paul,” she says before turning to John as well. “Now I expect you two to be down in an hour for tea.”

John rolls his eyes and mumbles a sarcastic ‘ _yes mother_ ’ before tugging Paul up the stairs and into his bedroom.

“She’s lovely yer ma is,” Paul states, settling on John’s bed as the older man fiddles around with the record player on the small desk in the corner of the room. Paul watches him intently, and after a few moments, Little Richard starts to sing and John straightens before making his way over to sit with Paul.

“Yeah, she is. I love comin’ over to see ‘er. More fun than Mimi y’know?”

Paul laughs and scoots closer to John, lacing their fingers together, and the guitarist rests his head on Paul’s shoulder.

“D’ya miss yer ma, Paul?”

Paul sighs and something bitter creeps deep within his chest.

“Sometimes. She was lovely, but I always had the feelin’ from ‘er that she didn’t want me, y’know?”

Paul feels John shift, and the grip on his hands tightens.

“Me too Paul. Me too.”

\--

Paul treks over to John’s house on an unfortunately hot Saturday. Mike is at scouts camp and his dad has actually gone to work, and so he decides to see John rather than stay at home by himself. He's not too good at keeping himself safely occupied when alone.

Mimi is in a bad mood when he gets there, and he wonders what John could’ve done to put her in a foul mood. She lets him in with the same false smile, but she doesn’t say anything, which is unusual. She must be mad, he thinks, because he knows that instead of shouting at John she usually just gives him the cold shoulder because he hates that more. And it looks like he’s subject to the same treatment. That then makes him feel like he’s done something wrong, though before he can dwell on it, John has come down the stairs and has grabbed his hand before leading him back up to his room.

The door slams behind them and John huffs over to his bed, slumping down and lighting a match to light the ciggy in his hand. Paul slumps down next to him and watches him blow the smoke out his nose.

Considering it’s such a hot day, Paul isn’t surprised to see John in just a t-shirt and his briefs. It makes him feels overdressed, but he knows he’s not going to do anything about it.

“Watcha’ done then?”

John suppresses a laugh, and Paul takes the cigarette from between his lips and places it between his own.

“I tried to sneak in me mam’s record player and Mimi hit the roof. ‘M surprised she even let ya in,” John replies, still laughing.

“Why is tha’ a bad thing?” Paul asks, seeing as he didn’t think that was much of a crime.

“Not allowed. ‘M only allowed to play records at me ma’s. Mimi says it will rot me brains,” John says, pulling a face by widening his eyes and jutting out his jaw, and Paul laughs and slaps him on the arm.

“Yer a dick.”

John only shrugs, a wide smile on his face, before taking the cigarette back off Paul.

They are thrown back into a comfortable silence, and John lies back onto his elbows leaving the ciggy in his mouth. Paul moves to sit against the wall next to John’s bed, letting his legs sit on top of John’s.

The heat is starting to really get to him, considering he’s in a t-shirt, his jacket and a pair of drainies, and it must have shown on his face because as soon as John stubbed out his cigarette he asks the question Paul is dreading,

“Aren’t ya hot in tha’?”

Paul instantly replies with a ‘ _no_ ’ but John tuts and sits up, his legs still trapped under Paul’s.

“Paul, I can literally feel the heat radiating off ya son. Ya don’t need to be a prude it’s only me.”

Paul fakes a smile but still shakes his head which causes John to roll his eyes, and he yanks his legs out from underneath Paul.

“At least take yer jacket off. Yer always wearing that bloody thing and I’ve never seen ya without it.”

Panic rises in Paul’s chest and he gulps before shaking his head.

“No Johnny I don’t want to.”

However, it seems as though John is not taking no for an answer, and proceeds to try and wrestle the jacket off of Paul, mumbling something about him ‘ _cooking like a potato_ ’, and though Paul struggles, stringing out a lot of curses and “ _John no_ ,” it's finally off.

Paul can’t look at him.

“Paul.”

Paul inches away from him to plaster himself against the wall, huddling his arms against his stomach with his eyes glued to his lap. His blood pounds in his ears and he can feel himself start to shake. The overwhelming panic cuts through him and his chest feels like it’s on fire. He thinks maybe John’s going to smack him away and send him to the loony bin in hopes he’ll come back normal. _If he ever was such a thing_. His breath scatters and he goes numb in hopes the words will hurt less.

John gently pries one of Paul’s arms away from his body, and he’s so gentle, something Paul isn’t expecting, and definitely not from John. Paul still has his eyes down, but he can feel John examine him, before giving him his arm back. John scoots closer in silence and softly wraps his arms around the younger man. A guttural sob is snatched from Paul’s throat, and he lets himself be held because he can't think of anything else to do. John doesn’t say anything but continues to hold him close as Paul cries, whimpering into John’s shirt. When Paul eventually relaxes a little, he lets himself slump into John’s hold, before snaking his arms around to clutch at John’s back.

“It’s okay Paul,” John says when Paul’s calmed down enough to hear him, and his hold on the younger boy loosens so he can lean back and look at him. John presses his thumb lightly against Paul’s cheeks, wiping away the tears staining his face before taking his hands in his own.

“I’ve got you, Paul.”

He squeezes Paul’s hands lightly and Paul gives a ghost of a smile and sniffles, still not quite meeting John’s eyes.

“Thank you, Johnny.”

\--

Some days he helps John out, digging holes in Julia’s garden so she can plant some flowers to liven up her small Liddypool piece of grass, and it earns him a few pennies and it’s enough to keep him going for the next week.

\--

He hears a stone pelt against his window and he already knows something’s wrong. It’s a lot louder than usual, and after the first one, it stops, which is unusual because John usually just keeps pelting them at the window until Paul yells at him to stop.

Paul isn’t asleep anyway. He’s been humming a tune that has been stuck in his head all day and was desperately trying to get it down on paper, so he climbs off his bed and goes to the window, where he sees John swaying slightly on the grass, familiar sight of a bottle of liquor clutched tightly between shaky fingers.

Paul is quick to run downstairs, glad his dad has passed out from the drinks and is dead to the world, and opens the door. John stumbles over to him and collapses forward into his arms, the bottle dropped and smashed into the carpet, and Paul can hear sobs ripping from his throat. John’s head is buried against his shoulder, and Paul pulls him against his body tighter so that he can haul the other boy into the house and close the door so as not to let all the cold air in. 

John is gripping onto Paul for dear life, and Paul gently smooths his hand over John’s hair and down to the nape of his neck.

“It’s okay Johnny,” Paul says, hushed against his ear, and John squirms slightly in his hold.

“No, it’s not,” John says, no _whimpers_ , and Paul holds him tighter.

He can practically _taste_ the alcohol emitting from John and gently leads him to the bathroom upstairs, helping him get on shaky knees in time for him to spew into the toilet.

Paul wipes the sweaty hair from his face and whispers that he’ll be ‘ _right back_ ’ before hurrying down to the kitchen to fill up a glass of water.

Once he’s back in the bathroom, he finds John with his head pressed against the seat, his breathing heavy and his eyes closed, tears still staining pink cheeks, and Paul thinks about what could’ve happened that was so bad to put John in this state. He sits on the floor next to him, slipping the drink between the other’s quivering fingers before watching him take a sip. Paul pats his knee then flushes the toilet and stands up, offering over a hand to which John takes, and hauls the guitarist up from the floor whilst steadying him with a hand on his chest.

“There ya go,” Paul whispers, a hand coming to rest on John’s cheek as he inspects his face. “Ya ‘ave a bit more colour in yer face now.”

John gives a joyless smile. “M’sorry Macca. I’ll go now,” he replies but is stopped from going anywhere when Paul grips his arm.

Paul’s eyes are big and pleading, and it’s obvious John doesn’t want to leave anyway. The younger man takes the glass from John’s hands before leading him to his bedroom. He places the glass on the bedside table and climbs back into bed. John quietly takes off his jacket and shoes before he sits on the bed next to Paul, but makes no move to make contact with the other. Paul watches him hesitantly get under the blankets and John blinks over at him with dopey eyes.

“Come ‘ere,” Paul breathes, and John is quick to crawl over to him, tucking his face against the bassist’s chest.

“Wha’ happened Johnny?” Paul asks quietly, circling an arm to wrap around the older man, hand planted firmly on his hip.

John’s fist curls into Paul’s shirt.

“She’s dead.”

Paul wants to be sick. There are only two women in John’s life, and that is his mother and Aunt Mimi. Paul knows either one would be devastating, and he doesn’t want to find out. But this isn’t about him. He pushes his selfishness away and breathes deeply within his chest.

Paul grips him tighter and asks the impending question, “ _who_?”

“Me ma.”

It’s barely audible, especially with how his face is squished against Paul’s chest, and yet Paul hears it loud and clear.

John is crying against him, his whole body shaking from the brutality of the tears tearing away from him.

John never cries. _Never_.

Yet he is. And Paul doesn’t quite know what to do.

This is a side of John that Paul hasn’t really seen, only had a few glimpses through the one-way mirror of John’s eyes; Paul would look at them sometimes and instead of seeing himself reflected back, he would see raw emotion that otherwise would never be voiced or seen, and he knows that John only shows him. Doesn’t let anyone else in.

Paul rubs at his back gently, stifling his own tears. He can’t let John know he’s crying; it wouldn’t be fair. It’s not his mother who has just died.

“It’ll be okay Johnny,” he whispers, and it’s all he can offer. Reassurance is the only comforting thing Paul can give him, and he presses a kiss to his head, only then, John cries more and Paul feels like he’s drowning.

John stays over that night, and when he wakes up his face is still puffy and red, and his head is pounding and he feels ill but he manages to crack a smile when Paul attempts to cheer him up with a cup of tea.

_Laugh when your eyes are burning. Smile when your heart is filled with pain._

Paul knows John isn’t going to just heal overnight, he knows all too well the gut-wrenching pain of realising _they’re never coming back_ , but that smile is enough for him to know he’s going to be okay.

\--

After that night, Paul doesn’t hear from John for a week. He doesn’t show up at band practices, and when he calls it’s always Mimi who answers and tells him that ‘ _John doesn’t want to answer the phone right now_.’

Paul knows that John’s still upset, and he’s not expecting him to be fine but he doesn’t know what he’s done to make John avoid him. He thought they were together through everything, and even though John has helped him through a few tough patches, it looks like he isn’t letting Paul return the favour. Paul’s at a loss at what to do and pulls a hand through his tangled hair as he sits by the phone in the hall, wondering whether to call John.

He’s slouched on the floor with his back against the wall and the phone in his hand, the chord straining to reach him, yet he doesn’t move. He’s not spoken to anyone in days. He hasn’t gone to school. His brother’s been camping at his friend’s house for the week, and his dad has been passed out for virtually four days. His hair is greasy and he hasn’t changed his clothes and he can’t find it in himself to pull himself together when he feels so damn _guilty_. Guilty that John is going through the hardest time in his life and he’s not there for him. Instead, he’s sulking around at home in hopes of hearing anything from the older boy.

He looks down at his feet, bare toes wiggling around to prove to himself he does have life in him. He hopes at some point he’ll be able to get up and eat something because his stomach is starting to tighten and he doesn’t know how long he can handle it joined with the unceasing simmering pain hitting his chest. He sighs hard, brutally slamming his lungs against his chest wall, and he coughs before flicking his eyes back down to the phone lying limp in his hand.

He knows John needs him, and he wants to do anything he can to just make sure he’s okay. Just to make sure he’s still his Johnny.

He scratches his chin, three-day-old stubble lining his face, and decides then that the only thing to do is go and see him. He stands up, holding himself up against the wall before pushing off and stumbling to get his coat, pushing it over shaky arms and pulling on his shoes.

The urge to retch increases and he brings a fist to his mouth with a deep breath before opening the front door.

It’s raining. And dark.

He finds himself trudging through the downpour, swaying slightly with every stride as he makes his way to John’s house. His eyes start to cloud slightly with tears, and he digs the base of his palms against them, willing himself to stop.

‘ _This is all my fault anyway_ ,’ he thinks, moving his hands to dig his fingers into his sternum, eliciting another wave of pain.

By the time he gets to John’s house, he’s completely soaked, and he can hear each _squelch_ his feet make with every step. He thanks whoever’s up there that John’s bedroom is at the front of the house so that he doesn’t have to climb the fence, and he props himself up against the brick wall to the side, catching his breath. No lights are on, which means they all must be in bed, but knowing John he’s probably not actually asleep yet. Paul heaves a breath before bending down and picking up a few small stones, then he staggers his way forward and throws one at John’s window. It hits it loudly, and he waits for a response but is disappointed when he doesn’t get one. He throws another, and when John doesn’t answer that one either, Paul knows he’s purposefully ignoring him, and it pulls at his heart more than it did when John was just ignoring his phone calls.

He goes to try one more time when the door opens, and he’s face to face with Mimi.

“Throw a stone at ma window again and I’ll ‘ave yer ‘ead McCartney.”

Though she means it, Paul can tell that she’s not angry with him. It makes him kind of glad because he doesn’t think he could deal with her throwing a slipper at him. He drops the stones and walks closer so she’s more in earshot.

“Sorry. Can I see John?”

Her frown morphs down into a dejected expression, and he already knows what she’s going to say. His hands curl tightly around his dripping sleeves, and he shivers slightly as the rain starts to get heavier.

“No, he doesn’t want to see anyone at the minute. Sorry lad.” There is pity in her voice, and she looks as if she wants to give another answer, but Paul understands. He sniffs and lowers his eyes.

“Thanks anyway Mimi,” he replies, though when he turns to walk away, a light hand on his arm stops him.

“I don’t want ya walking home in this when yer already drenched. Jus’ come inside for a bit until the rain stops,” she says tenderly, and a smile twitches at his lips as he lets her lead him inside.

She pushes him lightly onto the seat closest to the lit fire, before leaving him there whilst she makes a pot of tea. He shivers and wraps his arms tighter around himself, watching from the corner of his eye how his hair drips into his lap. He doesn’t know entirely how to act, because he’s never been here without John. He sits stiffly in his seat and waits for Mimi to get back.

He hadn’t realised he had drifted off slightly until there’s a warm hand on his shoulder, and he blinks his eyes open groggily and looks up. Mimi smiles down at him and hands him a pile of clothes and a towel.

“If ya stay in those clothes yer gonna end up catching ya death.”

He blinks at her, unsure of what to say, but she holds her smile and pats his shoulder.

“The bathroom’s down the hall.”

He nods and takes the clothes off her, only then realising whose clothes they actually belong to.

“Are these-”

"Yes, they’re John’s but they’re fresh out of the washing so he won’t even know they’re gone. Now go on before you get any colder.”

He stands and gives a tight smile.

“Thank you, Mimi.”

Her smile grows and she pats the side of his arm before moving into the kitchen, leaving him to make his way to the bathroom. He shuffles there slowly, his joints feeling stiff as he walks to the room at the end of the hall. He shuts the door and locks it before he lets himself fall onto the closed toilet lid, his hands cradling his head. He’s beginning to get colder and can feel his teeth start to chatter despite the warmth in the house.

He’s quick to strip himself of his sopping wet clothes and dries himself off with the towel before getting changed into John’s dry and warm clothes. They smell like John; John who he hasn’t seen in a week but is in his house. John, who is currently in the _same house_ as him. Paul knows he won’t come down and see him, not when he’s been avoiding him all this time.

He dries his hair off one more time before venturing out back into the living room, clad in a black pair of trousers and a white t-shirt, paired with a jacket Paul doesn’t recognise John ever wearing.

Mimi is waiting for him, sat on the seat opposite where he had sat before, and she hands him a cup of tea as he sits down.

It’s quiet for a moment, and Paul sips at his tea gratefully, until Mimi speaks up.

“Does yer father know yer here?”

Paul's eyes go wide and he looks at her from over his cup. “No.”

She hums and sips at her tea, and Paul watches her like a hawk.

“Shall I call ‘im and tell ‘im yer here?”

"No,” Paul practically shouts before shrinking back, regretting it instantly. He clears his throat at the shocked look on Mimi’s face.

“I mean, no he’s probably asleep now anyway. An’ he doesn’t like me goin’ out.”

She looks at him carefully and puts her tea down before moving closer. She looks over him and thumbs at the stubble across his cheek.

“Are ya alright lad? Yer not looking well.”

He sniffs and his eyes dart down, his hands fiddling with the cup in his lap.

“’m just tired,” he mumbles, setting his now empty cup on the table next to him.

“Yer welcome ‘ere anytime son. Ya don’t always need John with ya. I’d be willing to give ya dinner and a place to stay if home isn’t where you want to be.”

He’s sure he hadn’t mentioned how bad his home life could sometimes be, but it looks like she’s caught on despite him trying to keep it quiet. Or maybe John’s mentioned something to her before. Or maybe it's the way John's clothes hang off him because he hasn't eaten in a week. 

He doesn’t have to time to respond because there’s footsteps walking down the stairs, and he turns his head to see a tired John Lennon, his eyes slightly hidden behind thick-framed glasses, and he’s looking at him like he’s seen a ghost. John doesn’t move from his place in the doorway, and Paul stands and thinks maybe he should just go home. His eyes meet John’s and soon the older boy is in his arms, clinging to him like he’ll lose him if he lets go. Paul is shocked at first but welcomes the physical touch from John, something he’d been missing for too long. 

“I’ve missed ya, Johnny,” he mumbles into his ear, and John squeezes him tighter and buries his head into Paul’s shoulder. John’s hand moves up to touch the back of Paul’s neck, petting the thin hair there, and takes a deep breath, breathing him in.

They pull away, aware of the eyes on them, and Paul observes John properly, noting his eyes are wet and his face is flush from, what looks like, crying.

Mimi smiles at them. “Ya can stay over if ya want Paul. I’m sure John won’t mind top ‘n tailing with ya.”

Paul knows that won’t be the sleeping arrangements. Well, he hopes.

Paul just about gets out a ‘ _thank you_ ’ before John is tugging on his hand and leading him upstairs. John hasn’t said a word, and Paul doesn’t know if he’ll hear the guitarist’s voice tonight. He doesn’t mind though. He hasn’t seen him or heard from him in so long that he’s just thankful he’s even here with him.

Once they get into John’s room, John strips his top and gets into bed, Paul following suit. John curls in against his chest, and Paul tugs his fingers lightly through his hair.

“Ya don’t need to speak Johnny. I jus’ wanted to see you s’all,” Paul whispers into his hair, and John nods slightly.

They are quiet for a long time, and Paul thinks that John’s fallen asleep, him not having moved other than his chest rising and falling with each breath.

“I love you, Johnny,” he says, pressing a light kiss to John’s hair before shutting his eyes and relaxing into the bed with a soft sigh.

“I love you too, Paul.”

It’s hoarse and whispered, but even with his eyes closed, Paul smiles.

\--

John starts to turn up at practices again, and he’s back, _mostly_ , to his old cocky, arrogant self. No one says a word to him about Julia, and Paul thinks that’s probably best because if someone even mentions her name, he’s sure there’s the possibility that John could break again.

John lets Paul come around and answers his phone calls, and the younger boy thinks they’re actually getting back into the swing of things.

Paul’s shaved off his stubble, per John’s request, and is fed by Mimi for a few days after the incident that night, and he feels better than he has in a long time.

When he eventually goes home, Mike is still out, and his dad isn’t there either so he’s able to comfortably settle down in his own bed and just _sleep_.

\--

John comes over one day and they hole up in Paul’s room in hopes some inspiration will hit them.

It doesn’t.

Not when John asks him why he’s got food hoarded under his bed with fidgeting hands and a face that’s almost sceptical. He replies as though he’s being honest because that’s the only way to talk to John when he wants the truth. He says it’s because he likes to eat in his room instead of with his father, and not because he fears his father will binge eat and leave him and his brother to starve.

John squints at him but the subject is dropped when John says he needs to leave.

\--

When Paul turns seventeen, they perform at the Casbah Club, the new place that’s opened up in the basement of the Best’s house. There are people queuing for miles to just watch them, and Paul has never been so excited.  
Backstage he tunes his guitar quietly next to John who’s talking to Pete, his voice clipped and bitter.

“Shotton I don’t fuckin’ care. Do this gig, an’ if you wanna go then yer out. I can’t be dealing with you bitchin’ at me all the time.”

Paul doesn’t exactly know what Pete’s problem is, but if this is their last gig with him, Paul doesn’t mind. In fact, it might make John rethink about letting George in. Though, he also wouldn’t be surprised if John lets _Stuart_ join.

He watches as Shotton huffs and walks away from John with an angry grumble, whilst John turns to him with his eyebrow raised.

“What do ya think his problem is?”

Paul shrugs. “Dunno Johnny. He’s been acting off since ya came back.”

John looks at him, thinking of Paul’s words before replying with a low hum, going back to tune his guitar.

The show goes great, and Paul plays his guitar with grace and shakes his head when he sings, and the girls _scream_. He’s never known anything like it, and John laughs at him from across the stage and joins in too. The stage is practically vibrating underneath them, and Paul’s never felt so alive. He forgets about his chest, he forgets about his dad, he forgets Stuart, he forgets about the band. It’s just him and John.

They stumble off in laughter, cheeks rosy and smiles reaching their eyes, and John slings an arm around his shoulder, pulling him in closer than he really should in public, but they’re too high on adrenaline to care.

Paul sees Shotton glance over at them with a frown but he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he packs his guitar away and murmurs something to the other bandmates.

“I’m out. See ya round,” he says, and John just shrugs and goes to put his case away. Paul throws a ‘ _bye’_ over his shoulder before he follows John.

They’re putting their instruments away when a man approaches them. He looks older than Paul, maybe about John’s age, and he walks over with a broad smile.

“You guys were good. ‘M glad my ma gave the stage to a good band.”

“Yer ma own this place?” John asks, an incredulous look on his face. Paul laughs at him which earns him a jab to the ribs.

“Yeah. I’m Pete Best.”

“Lennon John, John Lennon,” John replies with that voice that sounds like those you hear on the BBC, bowing slightly and holding his hand out which makes Pete laugh at him.

“Paul McCartney,” Paul says, holding his hand out and ignoring John who’s still bowing, and Pete shakes his hand.

“Nice to meet ya both. I better be gettin’ back unless one of ya wan’ a drink?”

Paul shrugs. “Yeah ‘course. I don’t mind.”

He looks over to John, who has turned his back to him, and frowns.

“No, ‘m gonna see if I can find Shotton or get our money for the gig,” John replies, his voice unusually low and he keeps his back to them. Paul knows the body language means John’s jealous, but he can’t back out now that he’s said yes. And besides, it’s only a drink. It’s not like he’s going to fuck the guy. And he’s allowed to have other friends anyway. He pats John on the back and follows Pete down to the bar. Pete buys him a drink and they sit together on a two-seater table, the band now on the stage not causing as much of a crowd to bustle to the front meaning they have a good view of the whole room. Paul can’t see John, but he doesn’t worry. He knows what he’s doing and he’ll go and find him if he takes too long.

He really needs to stop worrying so much.

“So how long ya been in the band?” Pete asks, and Paul takes a swig of his pint.

“Jus’ over a year,” Paul replies, and Pete nods over the top of the drink in his hand.

“I see that one of yer members has jus’ walked out. If it happens to yer drummer, I’m available.”

Paul tilts his head and wipes the froth from around his mouth after taking another sip. “Yer a drummer?”

"Yeah. I practice down ‘ere sometimes when it’s empty. ‘M not bad so jus’ let me know yeah?”

Paul nods and gives a smiles. “Yeah will do mate.”

He goes to ask Pete about how his parents had made this place when there’s a tug on his shoulder, and he looks up to see John, his face coated in an angry sheen of envy.

“Can I see ya a minute?”

Paul knows that his tone leaves no room for argument, especially when they’re in a room full of people, so he downs the dregs of his pint and thanks Pete, before following John back into the empty backstage room.

“So, was he nice?”

John’s got his arms folded against his chest, and his face looks both angry and upset.

“John-”

“No Paul, was he worth ditchin’ me? Was he more interestin’?”

Paul looks at him and thinks that this kind of anger isn’t too flattering on John. Instead of arguing with him and making things worse, he walks up to him quickly and kisses him, giving him no time to react. His lips are pliant but don’t move, John too shocked to register what exactly is going on, but soon enough his lips press back and Paul sighs into it with relief. He pulls away, and John arches an eyebrow.

“What was that for?”

“Jealousy is not a good look on you,” Paul replies, crossing his arms and cocking his hip, a bad impersonation of a previously angry John. John laughs and throws his head back.

"If there wasn’t a chance that someone could walk in here at any time, I would kiss that fuckin’ smirk off yer lips,” John says, and Paul laughs before they both make their way back into the main room.

Once they’re back at the bar, Paul gets another tap on the shoulder, and he turns around curiously to find George, a big grin spread across his face.

“What’re ya doin’ here?” Paul asks and instead of answering, George gives him a small gift wrapped in newspaper.

“Happy birthday Paul,” George practically shouts, and Paul beams at him as he opens his gift. He rips the newspaper open to find a guitar pick matching the one he got for his last birthday, but with his name engraved into it.

Paul practically shakes with happiness and he pats George’s arm. “Thanks, George.”

George just smiles. “I best be ‘eading back or me mam will have me ‘ead for stayin’ out so late.”

“Okay,” Paul replies, and watches as George leaves, wishing him one last ‘ _happy birthday_ ’ on his way out.

“Do you wanna come to mine?” John asks, his face smug and Paul can’t exactly say no, doesn’t _want_ to say no, so he follows him out of the club and they walk home together.

It’s not as cold as it has been since it’s nearly July, but he doesn’t doubt that they will probably have a few more downpours before they actually see any of the summer sun.

“Did ya ‘ave a good birthday Macca?”

Paul looks over at him and sees John almost looks regretful.

“Yeah ‘course I did. Why ya askin’?”

John sticks his hands into his pockets and stops, both of them away from the street lamps and looking at each other in the dark.

“I jus’… I didn’t get ya a present. An’ it’s not because I didn’t want to, I jus’ didn’t ‘ave the money an’ I-”

“John it doesn’t matter. You bein’ with me was enough. I’ve had a great evening.”

As cheesy as it sounds, John just hums in reply and begins to carry on walking, and Paul watches him for a minute with a small frown, before jogging to catch up with him.

“I mean it, Johnny. I’ve had a great day.”

John looks at him and gives a small smile, and he walks closer to Paul and bumps his hip.

"If I could kiss ya right now, I would,” he whispers and Paul giggles and swats at him when John starts to make kissy noises.

“Yer a dick.”

“Love you too.”

\--

Paul lets himself rock against John’s hips, their mouths pressed together tightly in a heated, open-mouthed kiss, and Paul moans as John grounds his hips down into his own. John shushes him, alerting him that Mimi is asleep across the hall, but he doesn’t stop his movements, and Paul shudders slightly as John’s hand trails down to dip into his underwear. He gasps when John rubs a thumb over him, and John chuckles against his cheek before moving to suck at a spot behind his ear that makes Paul whine. Paul lets out a string of ‘ _fucks’_ as John quickens his pace, and then John moves down to suck at his nipple, grazing it with his teeth the same time his other hand moves to brush against Paul’s balls, and Paul arches his back with a pleasured moan, coming embarrassingly quickly. He reddens slightly, still panting with pleasure, and John kisses his cheek gently before finishing himself off.

“That was great,” Paul says when John lies down and puts his head on his chest.

“Only great?”

Paul smirks and John kisses at his tummy making Paul laugh.

“Hey, stop that.”

“Never.”

They spend the rest of the night muffling laughs behind the backs of their hands, and the thoughts of tomorrow lie blissfully out of reach.

\--

There’s a knock at the door. Paul knows it won’t be John because it’s a Sunday which means he’s helping Mimi with dinner, and he knows it’s not George because he always calls first. He still sprints down the stairs to try and open the door before his dad does but he’s too late.

He watches from the bottom of the stairs, a hand gripped to the bannister tightly, as his father leans on the door, swaying slightly as he stands, and there’s a tall, proper looking man on the other side.

“Mr McCartney you’ve not been at work for several weeks now, and we are afraid we’ll have to let you go.”

Paul stands in shock, though not entirely surprised, but his dad doesn’t seem to have the same reaction. He lunges at the man, fist connecting with his jaw, a sickening crack leaving the man stumbling backwards, a hand pressed to his face.

But Jim McCartney doesn’t relent.

He follows him out the door and hits him again and again and Paul’s yelling at him to stop and he’s crying and Jim is soon left just kicking the whimpering man that’s curled up on their front garden.

It all happens in a blur, but there are sirens and police and Paul watches as they handcuff his father and take him away, unknowing of his presence as he’s shrunk back into the house. Paul’s still crying, and he can’t seem to stop. He wants to call John, though he knows he won’t pick up when he’s busy, so he calls George. With shaky fingers he dials the number and sniffs, holding the phone up to his ear.

“Hello?”

"George?”

Paul didn’t mean for his voice to come out as a whimper, but he’s so beside himself he doesn’t think it will come out any other way.

“Paul? You okay?” George sounds worried. Paul doesn’t blame him.

Paul sniffs but the tears don’t subside. “Can ya come over?”

"Yeah sure I won’t be long Paul.” George is speaking fast, hanging up almost immediately, and Paul knows that George has already left.

He hangs the phone back up and sits on the floor at the bottom of the stairs with his back against the wall. He’s still crying. He brings his knees up to his chest and hides his face in them, desperately trying to drown out everything with a slight fear that he might not stop crying. He realises the door is still open, but he can’t find it in himself to move.

He doesn’t know how long he sits there, but soon there’s a hand on his knee and he looks up to see George crouched in front of him. Paul knows his face must be blotchy and his eyes are puffy and watches as George frowns.

“Come ‘ead Paul.”

He holds a hand out for him, which Paul takes, and heaves him up from the floor. He leads him slowly into the living room and sits him down on the sofa, kicking an empty liquor bottle with his foot. Paul feels stupid for withering down into a whimpering mess, but it seems as though his mind doesn't want to suck it up and carry on. 

“What ‘appened Paul?”

George sounds generally concerned, but Paul can’t look at him.

“My da’s jus’ been arrested. Beat a man nearly to death on the doorstep didn’t he.”

He hears George utter a small ‘ _jesus’_ under his breath and feels the sofa dip next to him.

“Where’s Mike, Paul?”

“He’s playin’ out. He’ll be back soon.”

George nods and pats Paul’s shoulder. Paul looks over at him, his eyes still teary.

“Well, Mike can stay at me mam’s an’ me an’ you an’ John, if ya want, can go on a road trip for a bit. Get yer mind off everything an’ so when ya get back everything will hopefully be sorted.”

Paul just nods joylessly and George sighs.

He helps Paul gather a few of his and Mike’s belongings when there’s a knock at the door. Paul goes down and opens it, and Mike instantly frowns at the sight of him. Paul knows he shouldn’t worry his brother, he knows as an older brother he needs to protect him. Though he also knows he can’t hide what’s happened because Mike’s a smart lad and will find out whether he likes it or not. Not when their dad’s at the police station and Paul’s witnessed him beat a man within an inch of his life.

“What’s wrong, Paul?”

Paul ushers him inside without saying anything, and Mike makes a confused noise at the sight of George shoving his belongings into a bag.

“What’s goin’ on?”

Paul doesn’t like the way his brother’s voice trembles, and it’s like he’s been dumped back in ‘56, flattening his brother’s hair down and adjusting his small tie, before leading him into the church, their mother awaiting them with her face neatly covered, and her hands place coldly against her still chest.

“Da’s been arrested so yer gonna stay at George’s ‘till I get back.”

Mike’s expression becomes unfathomable, and Paul desperately wants to hold him close and let him know it’s okay, so he steps forward only for Mike to step back.

“Yer leaving me?”

Paul watches as George stiffens and turns his head to look at him apologetically. Paul didn’t, and neither did George, predict that Mike would pose the blame on his older brother.

“Mike we’ll only be gone a few days. An’ Louise will look after ya.”

Mike just continues to look at him, his hurt expression fiery, and Paul knows the longer he stares at him the more he’ll get burnt so he steps back and grabs his own bag.

“I’ll drop ya off, then we’re goin’ to John’s.”

Mike doesn’t reply, but he takes his stuff from George and lugs it off his shoulder before storming out the house. Paul sighs, and he feels George set a hand on his shoulder.

“He’s not mad at ya Paul. He’s probably jus’ mad at his dad.”

George’s hand stays on his shoulder and it grounds him for a second, pulling him back into the reality he so badly wants to let himself drift away from. He looks at George for a minute and guessing from the look on his face, he’s thinking the same thing.

Paul locks the door behind them and they carry on after Mike towards George’s house. Louise is already on the doorstep cradling a crying Mike in her arms when they get there, and she looks at them with a wave of concern.

“Do ya boys wanna come in?”

George shakes his head and Paul gives a weak smile.

“No ma we’re off. Gonna get John then we’re goin’ hitch-hikin’ for a bit.”

She looks at both of them and opens her mouth to say something but decides against it, and instead quietly tells Mike to go inside.

“Let me jus’ grab ya a few things before ya go, lads, then ya can ‘ead over to John’s.”

\--

Paul hesitantly knocks on John’s door. He knows that John is helping Mimi out today, and he can’t help but feel slightly guilty for taking him away. He bites his lip as he waits, and the door opens to present a very dishevelled looking John.

“What are ya doin’ here?”

Paul doesn’t think his voice will come out if he speaks, his throat tightening just thinking about the past events.

“Paul’s da’s been arrested so we jus’ wanted to know if ya wanna come hitch-hikin’ with us?” George asks, and Paul looks at him gratefully.

“Arrested?”

John’s voice sounds shocked and George just tuts at him.

“Do ya wanna come or not? We’ll explain everything to ya on the way.”

John huffs and shuts the door, and Paul feels briefly bewildered that John doesn’t want to come. George is scuffing his shoes on the floor, obviously unsure of what to say, and Paul sighs.

There are a few shouts from inside before the door is back open, John standing there now adorned with his coat and shoes and a bag over his shoulder. He slams the door behind himself, muttering under his breath before walking down the steps with the other two close behind.

“What did Mimi say?” Paul asks hesitantly, glad his voice is supporting itself again.

“I’ve been slavin’ away all day for ‘er and for what? I told ‘er I was comin’ whether she liked it or not. An’ she definitely wasn’t happy an’ threw her bloody slipper at me.”

George muffles a laugh with his hand and John shoots him a glare.

‘ _If looks could kill_ ,’ Paul thinks, and stands between them before an argument can break out.

“If ya want I can ask Ivan if we can spend the night at his place an’ we can start tomorrow?”

Paul nods at him, and so does George, and so it’s decided. Paul’s just glad it’s not Stuart they’re staying with. John looks over at him with his eyebrow quirked, and Paul frowns at him.

“So what happened with yer dad?”

\--

Sometimes he feels as if he’s been swamped, like the walls are breaking down and he’s heaving and he’s crying and he feels like he can’t breathe.

Maybe he can’t.

\--

They set off for Devon the next morning after spending the night at Ivan’s. George has been there before and says it’s a lovely place, so they decide that would be where they go.

It’s cold, the month verging on October, and Paul’s been forced to wear one of George’s old coats to keep himself warm by George’s mother. At the time, he tried to tell her he would be fine, but now he’s grateful because it’s freezing, and he knows it will get even colder when it gets dark.

After making their way through the Mersey tunnel, they just keep walking until the decide it’s time to stop.

Paul is quiet, and though both John and George try to coax a few words out of him, he seems distant. John walks close to him, bumping hips now and again, as George reads the map, directing them south towards Devon. 

By the time it gets dark, they stop off at a chip shop and find themselves in a small town on the coast of Wales. They don’t really have any money, so a hotel is out of the options.

They find a wall and jump up, sitting on it to eat their chips that are wrapped in newspaper, and John tries to pick off of Paul’s making the younger boy swat at him with a laugh.

“Where are we gonna sleep?” George asks from beside John, who shrugs in response.

“Here.”

“Shurrup,” George laughs and smacks John’s arm who throws his head back with a laugh.

“I saw a sign for a B&B a few streets back. We can see how much that is,” Paul mumbles, and the other two turn to look at him, slight concern shallowly covering their faces.

“Yeah alright.”

They all climb off the wall, throwing their rubbish in the bin, before carrying on down the street. There aren’t many street lamps on, so they’re walking around in near darkness, and John stumbles on a rock which causes the other two to snicker behind their hands.

A lovely Welsh lady opens the door when they arrive and lets them in and out of the cold quite quickly.

“So what can I do for you lads?”

“We were wonderin’ if ya had a room for the night?”

She nods sweetly and turns to look at the book that’s lying on the desk. She scans it with her finger, and they watch her patiently, praying she has a room, before she turns to them, lips thin.

“I do have a room. But there are only two beds.”

Paul feels John nudge him slightly, and he suppresses a grin.

“That’s fine. We don’t mind toppin’ ‘n taillin’,” John grins and the lady laughs.

“That’ll be ten pounds then lads.”

Their eyes nearly bug out of their heads before their hands dart into their pockets. They are able to scrape together the money between them, and the woman kindly shows them to their room, with a promise of breakfast in the morning.

As soon as the door shuts, Paul is being tackled onto one of the beds by John who then sits on his stomach with both his hands on Paul’s shoulders,

“What are ya doin’?” Paul laughs and John smirks at him.

“Jus’ tryin’ to cheer ya up,” John replies before he places a kiss on Paul’s nose making him giggle.

“Guys I’m still here.”

They turn their heads to see an unimpressed George sat on the other bed, his face scrunched up in a mix of embarrassment and disgust.

“What’s the matter, George? Do ya not like sharin’ a room with us?” John laughs before making a scene of giving a giggly Paul a sloppy kiss, to which George groans at and flops backwards onto his bed, covering his ears with the pillow.

“Please stop.”

The older two laugh and decide to leave George alone, the poor boy already having to third-wheel for the whole trip, so they all strip down into their boxers and climb into bed. John curls around Paul’s back, hugging him tightly around his waist and places a kiss to his bare shoulder.

“So did I cheer ya up?”

Paul chuckles and turns his face to give John a kiss on the cheek before settling back down against his pillow.

“I guess that was a yes then.”

They are all silent for a while, before George is out of his bed, tangling himself up in the duvet with a loud ‘ _fuckin’ hell’_.

“Shut up George,” John says, but George shrieks something about a spider that causes the other two to groan and leave the warmth of their bed.

George is pointing to the corner of the room next to his bed where there's a spiders web and two large spiders on it. Before Paul can do anything, John is clobbering them with a rolled-up newspaper then showing them the evidence of two crushed spiders.

Paul looks briefly horrified before he turns to John and says “What did ya do that for? We could’ve just let them out the window?”

John put the newspaper in the small bin and shrugs. “Well, it’s done now.”

Paul huffs at him and they all climb back into their beds with a sigh and John and Paul resume their positions.

“G'night, Paul,” John whispers against his ear, and Paul turns his head slightly to look at him and return the favour. “G'night Johnny.”

“And no funny business ‘else I’ll go sleep on the landing.”

John laughs and Paul mumbles a ‘ _sorry George_ ’ before they all settle down, relishing in the warmth that’s so much better than the cold they’ve been walking around in all day.

When they go down for breakfast the next morning, they are met with three plates of a full breakfast with sausages and eggs and bacon, and it's so much food Paul’s not exactly sure where to start. He watches as John and George dig into theirs without hesitation, and Paul looks back at his own with a thought that they probably don’t have to hunt for their breakfast in the back of dusty cupboards, and are accustomed to such food. Which Paul is not.

The lady eats her own breakfast with them, and they chat to her about where they’re hitchhiking too.

“So did you have a good sleep then, lads?”

The three nod, John and George stuffing their faces as Paul pushes his food around the plate with the back of his fork.

“Very well thank you,” George finally answers after finishing his eggs.

“Good good,” she replies, finishing her own meal. “Did you see Jimmy and Jemima?”

They look at each other confused and John puts his knife and fork down. “Pardon?”

She smiles at their confused faces and says “Two little spiders,” she says, pointing her finger up to the ceiling to indicate where they would be.

They all share a look and are all quick to finish what they are doing.

“No. No, we didn’t” John replies, keeping his voice steady. Out of the three of them, Paul can say that John is the best liar. He’s watched him lie to Mimi many times without batting an eyelid, and it’s like it comes to him as second nature. He’s not too bad himself, he thinks, having successfully lied to his mother and father many times as a kid, though he guesses he can’t play it off now with childhood innocence as he could back then.

After a minute, she gives an uncertain nod and offers to take their plates in with a sweet smile. They thank her kindly and slip their jackets on before counting the money they have left.

“I’ve got £2.”

“I’ve got £3.”

“I’ve got two threepence.”

George and Paul look at John disbelievingly.

“What the hell did ya spend yer money on John? I thought ya bought £2 with ya,” Paul says and watches as John’s face morphs into a wide grin like the cat who’s got the cream.

“I bought some stuff for the trip s’all.”

He unzips his jacket pocket and pulls out three large bars of dairy milk. Paul can’t remember the last time he had chocolate, maybe it was that time a girl at his school gave him a square when she’d heard him crying in the bathroom, and he looks at John with wide eyes.

“John ya didn’t ‘ave to do that,” George says, Paul nodding along with him.

“I didn’t ‘ave to no. But I wanted to,” John replies putting them back in his pocket.

“Thank ya, Johnny,” Paul tells him, George also offering a ‘ _thanks John_ ’, whilst John just shrugs.

“S’nothing.” 

John’s eyes linger on Paul for a minute and he smiles, causing Paul to smile back.

John clears his throat awkwardly after realising they’d been staring at each other for much longer than they should’ve, before mumbling something about ‘ _going to the loo_ ’. He walks off quickly, leaving just Paul and George at the table.

“I ‘eard John’s got a bird.”

Paul looks over at him and shrugs. “They’re jus’ friends at the minute. But he’ll probably ask ‘er out soon,” Paul mumbles before he sighs and turns his head away from George.

“What’s the matter?”

There’s a pause, Paul checking that John is still in the bathroom, before he answers, “’M jus’ afraid he’ll replace me.”

George tuts and Paul turns to face him with a frown.

“What?”

George just smiles. “If he does go out with her, it won’t last.”

Paul’s frown deepens, and he thumbs at the sleeve of his jacket. “Why not?”

“Because if ya could just stop bloody staring at him all the time, you’d realise he’s in love with you.”

Paul stops fidgeting and he coughs, eyes wide and disbelieving. “Pardon?”

George keeps the smug smile on his lips as he crosses his arms and relaxes back into the chair.

“You ‘eard me.”

When John walks back in, Paul’s eyes are still like saucers making the older man frown, while George snickers quietly.

They manage to get a few rides from a few truckers and are able to get down to Exeter by the next night. It’s beautiful like George said it would be, but Paul feels as if it’s not enough. He wants to go further, and soon enough they find themselves in Paignton. It’s dark and damp and cold so they decide to stop the night, only to realise they don’t have enough money for a room.

They find a small shop that's still open, and buy a tin of Smedley's spaghetti bolognese each and a tin of Ambrosia creamed rice to share which nearly spends the last of their money.

They decide to stop on the beach and sleep there, though the wind starts to pick up, and Paul’s just glad George’s mother made him wear the damn coat because otherwise, he’d be practically ice.

When they settle down and get ready to eat, they wait for George’s to get the little stove out that he’d brought with them amongst the other things his mother had crammed into his bag, only he curses and looks up at them sorrowfully.

“What?” John asks, his voice stiff.

George clears his throat and opens his tin. 

"I forgot it.”

Paul can only imagine the lonely looking stove in George’s hallway and feels laughter bubble in his chest, genuine laughter, and he bursts into a fit of giggles, to which the others end up joining in with too.

“Yer a git,” Paul says, ducking and smiling as George goes to throw his bolognese at him.

“We could just build a fire y’know,” John says, and Paul looks at him like he’s an idiot.

“I don’t trust ya with fire.”

“Neither do I.”

But still, John sets off in search of something to set alight, coming back with a handful of driftwood that’s found itself on the shoreline. He drops it in a heap on the sand before taking a box of matches from his pocket and striking one, all of them watching as he drops it in. They expect it to combust instantly, but the flame flickers and dies within seconds, and the younger two look up at John amused.

“I think it’s ‘cause the wood’s wet Johnny,” Paul says, and John’s expression shifts as if to say ‘ _no shit_ ’.

So Paul gets up and helps John try to find some wood that would be actually useful whilst George mans their campsite in case anybody tries to make them move.

Eventually, Paul finds some light, dry wood beside some rocks in the corner of the beach, so he and John trek back with their arms full, before piling it upon the wood John had already collected.

Paul sits down next to George, John following suit in exhaustion. The cold is starting to get to them slightly, even through their thick coats, and Paul considers maybe going and begging a hotel to let them in. He knows it wouldn’t do anything. No one would let three teenagers in when all the old folk these days think they’re only there for causing trouble.

He watches as John strikes a match next to him and throws it onto the wood. It explodes momentarily, and Paul realises John might have been a bit too close than what was good for him, and he quickly turns his head to see John with the tip of his fringe smoking.

George howls, and although Paul tries to keep it in for John’s sake, a laugh fizzles out of his mouth and he can’t stop. John’s eyebrows, or what’s left of them, frown at the two boys and he huffs out a few obscenities, opening his can of bolognese sharply, though battering the lid with unrestrained ruthlessness when it doesn’t open as smoothly as he had hoped.

George continues, and John reaches across Paul to shove at him, though it does nothing to subside his giggles. Paul opens his can and holds it above the fire with John, whilst George fishes in his pocket for the forks that he’d knicked off his ma before they left. Paul wonders if she knows they’re missing. It makes him think of his brother, sat in the cosiness of the Harrison household, away from their father, and away from their hole of a house. And away from _him_.

He sighs briefly, realising he’d zoned out and George is waggling a fork in his face, so pulls his tin back from the flames, accepting the fork off of George who titters at him, and stirs his bolognese.

It’s not as nice as a cooked meal, but they all eat it incredibly fast, followed by the rice pudding they are able to share, though it ends with George eating most of it anyway.

Soon enough they curl into the sand around the fire, huddling for warmth as it starts to get colder. If they weren’t in public, Paul would’ve gladly wrapped himself around John, even if it is just for the sake of body heat, but he knows people won’t see to it kindly.

George is out like a light within minutes, and Paul watches as John rolls his eyes.

They’re face to face, just not too close, and John smiles gently at him.

“G’night Macca.”

"G’night Johnny."

When Paul wakes up the next morning, the fire is mostly out and the tide is starting to come in, so Paul decides quite quickly that they need to leave. Paul’s back hurts, and his chest gives a powerful thump when he first sits up and he winces. It dawns on him with the next sharp pain that he didn’t take his medicine the night before. It’s still sat in his pocket.

He gives an uncomfortable sigh and reaches for his water bottle, letting out a small whimper as he chest starts to constrict, and he quickly takes his medication with the attitude ‘ _better late than never_ ’. He’s glad he’s awake before the others and so lies back down, breathing shallowly and waiting for the pain to pass.

By the time John yawns and flicks his eyes open, Paul is relatively back to normal, and it looks as if John hasn’t caught on that something’s wrong. Relieved, Paul helps them pack up their things before they head off the beach and up on the main road to catch a lift.

After sticking out their thumbs and cramming down John’s sweets for what feels like hours, a huge lorry eventually stops and lets them on. George and John are quick to take the benches in the back, leaving Paul to clamber into the cab and sit on the battery.

They decide it’s best that they go home, so they let the driver know, who tells them he’ll drop them off at the Mersey.

The radio from the front drifts into the back of the lorry where the three young boys sit, and they chatter amongst themselves for a while. They’d only gone a few miles, and Paul starts to feel flustered. His skin starts to prickle with heat, and he fans his t-shirt out, blowing out his cheeks.

“Cor it’s hot in here.”

The others look at him dumbly. “Yer looking pretty red mate,” George says, and John laughs. Paul tries to laugh too but the heat is starting to engulf him, and he shifts slightly.

“I’ve never felt so hot,” he says after a few more minutes, and John frowns at him.

“Well don’t go on about it.”

Paul takes that as his cue to shut up, but he desperately needs to cool down, and he can’t understand the change in temperature, especially as it’s obviously not affecting the other two.

It's only when he glances down, eyes widening, that he realises what's wrong. His trousers are on fire.

_Actually on fire._

He jumps up and tries to rip them off in sheer panic, only to get himself tangled up and he can’t get his zipper down and all he gets from the others is _“Jus’ because ya feel a bit hot Paul don’t mean ya have to go round stark naked._ ”

Paul seethes and whips around to scream at them “I’m on fire ya idiots.”

Their eyes travel down the flames biting at Paul’s trousers and they have them off him in an instant. John stamps the fire out with his shoe, and Paul feels humiliated, stood there with just his y-fronts on.

“Did it get ya?” John asks, and his voice snatches Paul from his self-pitying stupor. Paul shrugs, and John moves to stand behind him and look at the back of his legs.

He hears John chuckle, and he tries to stick his head around to have a look.

“What’s the matter?”

John clears his throat with a throaty giggle. “Ya err… ya got a great big red zipper mark across ya arse.”

Paul splutters, and George guffaws. John hands him his trousers back, one of the back pockets burnt and crispy, with a smug smile.

"Here I’ll move up and ya can sit between us two,” George offers once he’s stopped himself from laughing so hard.

“Aye thanks for that,” Paul mutters bitterly, only causing John and George to snicker back.

They sit quietly for nearly the whole way back to Liverpool, the only comments being made from John and George being ‘ _no one’s gonna believe this when we get home_ ’ and ‘ _how’s yer arse Paul_ ’ to which Paul shows them the finger.

The lorry driver drops them off at the Mersey tunnel, and they thank him with the rest of the money they have, which in all honesty isn’t much, before they venture back home.

The walk back to George’s house isn’t far, and Paul’s glad because he’s tired and he’s cold and he just wants to _sleep_.

George turns to John at one point, causing the older man to frown at him.

“If I play for ya again will ya let me in?”

“Let you in what?”

George scrunches his face up at him and flips his fringe from his eyes. “The band ya git.”

“Depends.”

That’s a good enough of an answer for George, and he holds onto it tightly until they get to his house. Mrs Harrison opens the door and pulls George into a hug almost immediately. He reddens with embarrassment and pushes her away after a few seconds as Paul and John snicker.

“Well, ya all look like yer still alive. Did ya ‘ave a good time?”

They reply with a few shrugs and the odd ‘ _yeah’_ and she smiles.

“Come ‘ead then boys.”

They follow her, and the warmth hits them immediately, and Paul pushes his sleeves up from where they’d been wrapped around his fingers. He looks around for his brother but sees no sight of him, and looks at Louise with confusion.

“Mike’s out with his friends at the minute, son. He’ll be home soon though.”

 _Home_. The way she uses the word makes Paul think this is home for a second. If this _is_ what home is supposed to feel like, warm and comforting and safe, he supposes it is.

He nods at her before George buts in.

“We’re jus’ goin’ upstairs for a bit ma.”

Her smile flickers but she nods her permission, and Paul and John follow George up to his room where the first thing he does is pick up his guitar.

“I’ll play now for ya John.”

John seems a little shocked but mostly amused and so sits on the bed and waits for George to play. Paul sits next to him, placing a light hand on his leg as if to say ‘ _be nice_ ’.

George launches into his own rendition of ‘Raunchy’ and Paul admits it’s the best he’s ever seen him play. His fingers are nimble and glide across the strings in a sort of fluidity that Paul doesn’t even think neither him or John can do.

When he’s done, George holds his breath, and Paul thinks John is stupid if he says no now. Shotton walked out months ago, and so have the rest, leaving only him, John and Ivan. Though, Paul thinks it’s only a matter of time before Ivan leaves too; he’s got himself a girl and is still in school and he just thinks that there’s no _need_ for him to be in the band anymore.

John clears his throat. “Alright, George. Yer in.”

George practically beams, and Paul doesn’t think he’s ever seen him that happy. Paul gently squeezes John’s leg in appreciation.

John looks over at him, his smile wide, and a feeling flutters in Paul’s chest that he’s unsure of. It’s intense; more than just a liking. It practically devours him and eats him alive and Paul thinks he might have an idea of what it is, but he won’t admit it. Not yet.

So he just smiles softly at John, relishing in the way John’s eyes seem to linger on his own for a moment longer than needed. It’s all he needed to know that the feeling is okay.

‘ _I love him_ ’ he thinks.

_I love him. I love him. I love him._

_\--_

The day Paul gets a girlfriend he’s pulled into reality, realising he and John can’t be together and not have someone to cover it up.

John eventually asks the girl he’s been talking with out, and he’s quick to announce her as his girlfriend. Her name is Cynthia, and she’s a small blonde girl who obviously has fallen for John. Paul almost feels bad that he knows John doesn’t feel the same about her.

John tells him he needs one too, and he though he desperately doesn’t want to, he eventually asks out a girl out he had briefly met at the Casbah club a few weeks after they got back from their hitch-hiking. 

He meets her outside the Casbah late on a Saturday night. She’s dressed in a small black skirt and a light blouse with her auburn hair made up in a classy updo. She smiles at him, her eyes crinkling slightly making her eyelashes look longer and her lips look plumper, and Paul splutters slightly and stubs out his cigarette on the floor.

“Hi,” she says, her voice mild, though with a hint of excitement.

He smiles back and replies, hopefully not sounding as awkward as he feels, before they start to make their way down the street towards the little restaurant on the corner.

He keeps his arms by his sides and doesn’t look at her, but after a while, he feels her arm slide in next to his, hooking him in with her elbow and bringing them closer together. He stiffens slightly and looks down at her, to which she blushes and looks away to hide her face under her low fringe.

He doesn’t think it would be appropriate to give her her arm back so he keeps it there, glad to see the small restaurant in view.

It’s a small place and not very busy so they’re seated within minutes. They sit across from each other and Paul is quick to pick up his menu, hiding his face. He takes several deep breaths and clears his throat before tilting his menu down so he can see her face.

“What are ya havin’?” he asks, trying to keep his voice even as his anxiety builds.

She hums and flicks through the pages before she settles back into her seat with a soft sigh.

“I think I’ll have the pasta,” she says, before putting her menu down.

Paul looks at his own, but he’s so nervous and awkward that he can’t make out what the words are saying so he settles with “ _yeah I think I will too_.”

The waiter takes their order and leaves them sitting in, what Paul thinks is, an uncomfortable silence. He can feel Dot’s eyes practically searing a hole into his head, so he flicks his eyes over to her with a smile.

“So Paul, how often do ya play?”

Her blue eyes sparkle slightly as she looks over at him, and he gulps, his hands shaking slightly as he fiddles with the loose thread on his jacket.

“Nearly every night down at the Casbah.”

His voice is almost timid, and he’s immediately frightened she thinks he’s an idiot, but she just giggles quietly, her face blushing a pale pink.

“I’d love to come and see ya more often. You’ve got a good band goin’ on. Everyone’s always talkin’ about ya all.”

He quirks his eyebrow at that. “Everyone?”

She nods and takes a sip of the water that’s set on the table.

“Oh yeah. Yer the band that everyone’s on about. I think if ya keep goin’ the way ya are, people will actually end up skippin’ work to see ya.”

She laughs, it’s airy and sort of high pitched. He laughs too, a little embarrassed, but he can’t help but think about what she said.

They eat their dinner in near silence, listening to the radio that’s been stationed on the counter at the front, just close enough for them to hear. Paul doesn’t finish everything on his plate, his nerves still getting to him, so he waits politely for Dot to finish before ordering the bill.

When the meal has been paid for, courtesy of Paul emptying his pockets, he decides that the best way to show he’s a gentleman is to walk her home.

The streets are quiet at this time of night, but she seems to walk closely next to him anyway.

Once they’re outside her house, she turns to him, her hair catching slightly in the wind as she moves.

He looks down at her fondly and smiles and she valiantly takes a step forward, her small hands touching his waist. He takes a sharp intake of breath as she moves closer, tipping her head up so her lips are jutted out. He leans down slowly and presses his lips against hers.

It’s different to kissing John.

Her lips are plush and they move with Paul’s gently. The skin of her cheek is soft and brushes his face, much unlike John’s whose stubble grazes sharply. John is more forceful, _deeper_ , with his kisses, whereas Dot keeps it light like it’s not an intimate expression of someone’s feelings.

He decides there and then as he kisses her that he most definitely likes kissing John better.

He pulls back and looks at her. Her eyes are closed, and she flutters them open, looking up at him through her thick lashes.

“Thank ya for tonight Paul,” she tells him sweetly before she gives him a quick peck on the cheek and saunters into her house.

Paul stands there dumbfounded for a minute, feeling dreadfully like he’s just cheated on John. Though he knows John does the same with Cynthia so there isn’t anything he should really be worried about.

He walks home in the dark, the feeling of her lips still lingering on him, and he wants to do anything to get his mind off of her.

It’s not that he doesn’t like her. She’s a pretty girl and she’s kind and intelligent but she’s _not John_.

He stuffs his hands into his pockets with a huff and continues on home, thoughts lingering on the knowledge that he’s going to see John tomorrow.

_Tomorrow_. _Tomorrow_. _Tomorrow._

\--

Paul moves back home again when his dad gets out on bail. He desperately doesn’t want to, but he feels like an intruder in George’s house. Paul and Mike are staying in George’s oldest brother’s room who’s moved away for school, though he knows George wants to move in there so he doesn’t have to share a room with his other brother.

Louise, which is also the name of George’s sister, has become very fond of him; her eyes always on him with a small smile, and when he looks over at her she blushes and looks away, and he doesn’t exactly know what to do with himself.

He doesn’t want to go home. But he doesn’t want to stay there either.

Since the hitch-hiking trip, he hasn’t been to school either, and he knows there’s going to be a letter waiting for him, clutched in his dad’s hand when he gets home. He can already predict the disappointment in his eyes; he’s seen it so many times that he doesn’t have to look at his face to know it’s there.

He tells Mike in the morning before he goes to school that they’re going home. Mike is quiet, and he leaves silently with his bag pulled tight over his shoulder, a look in his eyes akin to betrayal.

There’s nothing Paul can do to make his brother feel better, so he watches him leave, the pain in his chest unfamiliar and it makes his guilt sting even more.

\--

If he had to, he would make an excuse of him going over to John’s just to write songs if anyone asked. But they don’t. There’s no one that cares anymore and he can walk out the house without the self-accusation withering inside him, the only objection being the liquor bottle that smashes against the front door as he closes it.

As he walks to John’s, he sniffles and coughs into the sleeve of his jacket. He woke up that morning and immediately knew his body was having a bad day. He can feel the aches all the way down to his bones, and the usual pain in his chest has increased tenfold. It’s just scraping the edge of agony, but Paul can hide it easily with a strained smile, and he’s taught himself to ignore the pain to not worry anyone. Especially John.

John’s waiting for him when he gets to his house and drags him in before Mimi can say anything about getting his muddy feet on the carpet.

“Why ya in a hurry?” Paul asks as John closes the door behind him.

“Wanna show ya somethin’,” John says. Paul frowns and sits on the bed, crossing his legs so he has a good view of John who’s perched himself on the end with his guitar in his lap. John’s eyes flicker up to him, and there’s uncertainty there, something Paul doesn’t see often. John’s persona of rebellious teddy boy only lifts in the presence of Paul, and possibly Mimi, and Paul is much obliged in knowing that John allows him to access a side of him no one else sees.

Before John starts, he strums his guitar once then he looks up at Paul and squints.

“Are ya alright?”

Paul frowns. “Yeah, I’m fine. Why?”

John strums the guitar again and shrugs. “Yer jus’ lookin’ a bit peaky s’all.”

Paul shakes his head. “ ’M fine Johnny. Jus’ get on with it will ya?”

John smiles at him, though his lips are thin, lined with anxiousness, so Paul gives him an encouraging smile.

John begins strumming an unfamiliar tune, his eyes slightly closed in concentration, and he hums quietly.

Paul sits, listening intently and watching how John looks so comfortable playing. It’s not an upbeat song like they usually try to write, a foreign kind of melody that still co-exists in the same category as their other songs, though it glides in a different way, and as soon as John opens his mouth to sing, Paul’s heart nearly gives out.

“ _Though I know I'll never lose affection_

_For people and things that went before_

_I know I'll often stop and think about them_

_In my life, I'll love you more._ ”

On the last words, John lifts his eyes to meet Paul’s, and Paul feels like he can just melt. The slight blush in John’s cheeks and the sincerity in his eyes makes Paul giddy, and he waits until John’s done and has set his guitar aside before he pulls him into a hug, grasping the back of his head with his fingers, seeking any and all physical contact, trying to be as close as possible.

“I guess ya like it then.”

John’s voice is muffled against Paul’s chest, and Paul cackles before pulling John’s head up tenderly and pushes their lips together.

Yes, he definitely prefers kissing John than Dot.

Paul’s hand drifts up underneath John’s shirt, feeling the expanse of his chest under his fingers, and then he’s breaking the kiss briefly to pull the shirt over his head. Their lips meet again in a passionate movement, and Paul’s hands move round to John’s back, pulling him _closer, closer_. There is nothing necessarily sexual about it, Paul just wants to _feel_ John; be close to him. It seems like John feels the same, for he shoves the jacket down from Paul’s arms and pulls the t-shirt over his head.

It’s a funny feeling, getting to know someone’s body just as well as your own.

John breaks the kiss and traces his thumb along Paul’s jawline and up to his lips, whilst Paul moves his hands around John’s waist. They’re practically in each other's laps, so close their breathing the same air, and there’s a distinct look in John’s eyes which Paul knows isn’t lust, but that of _love_. John’s thumb presses down on his lower lip and drags it down, carrying on so he lets go and his fingers skirt down over his chin. Now that his face is free of John’s hands, Paul starts to gently pepper kisses to the side of John’s neck and John’s hands glide lightly over his chest. Paul only stops when he feels John’s hands still. Paul removes his lips from John’s neck and moves so his face is on the same level as John’s. The older man looks dejected, and Paul just wants to kiss the expression off his face.

But he doesn’t.

He looks down to where John’s pale fingers are tracing the thick scar that lines the middle of his ribcage. Paul hardly notices it most of the time. It’s the type of scar that has faded into a white line, but when you feel it it’s raised and thick, and it becomes apparent to Paul that this is probably the first time John’s noticed it. Paul tenderly takes John’s hand into his own and places it on his own cheek so that both of their hands are cupping his face. John’s looking at him with the same expression, and Paul turns his face to kiss at John’s palm.

“It’s okay,” he whispers.

John cups his face with both hands, pulling him into a kiss desperately, and Paul moves his hands so that they’re around John’s neck. The kiss is hot and breathy but soft, and it isn’t a battle for dominance. _No_ , it’s more of a need, a desperation to seek the union and closeness they crave. John licks into his mouth and Paul feels the heat rise in his cheeks. The soft caress of John’s lips against his own is wonderful, and Paul chases the feeling. His hands grapple at the hair at the nape of John’s neck, and he can feel John’s hand tangle in his own hair.

If Paul could, he’d want to get lost in John forever.

They pull away and Paul rests his head against John’s cheek. He can feel John’s breath against the side of his neck, thick and heavy pants, and he kisses at John’s jaw lovingly.

“Y’know I wish we could do this all the time.”

Paul frowns and pulls back to look at John.

“What?”

John shrugs and bites at his lip.

“Be together. It’s stupid, I know, but I jus’ don’t like when we can’t even touch in public or be too close or even say certain things and I jus’…”

John doesn’t finish his sentence and instead rubs his hand over his face. Paul watches him and thinks. He’d give anything to just be able to be with John outside the privacy of their room, but considering it’s illegal, he doesn’t think it’s likely.

“What about we come up with our way of talkin’ to each other without actually talkin’.”

John looks up at him slightly amused.

“What are ya on about son?”

Paul laughs and watches as a smile finally returns to John’s face.

“For example, if one of us do this,” he says, moving his fingers like a spider across the bed towards John, “it’s like yer askin’ ‘ _are ya okay?'_.”

John nods along, obviously intrigued by Paul’s idea, and so Paul carries on.

“An’ so then the other person carries it on to say ‘ _yes’,_ or doesn’t to say ‘ _no’_.”

“Yer full of weird ideas, you are.”

Paul cackles and swats at him, and John grins.

“But yeah I think that’s a gear idea, Macca,” John says, and Paul beams at him before diving in for a hug, making John grunt at the force. John kisses his cheek, soft and quick, and Paul feels bowled over by the charm of him.

Yes, John is so much better than Dot.

\--

Paul knew it was going to happen at some point, he had just hoped John was going to talk to him about it first.

He and George turn up at a rehearsal to already find John there with none other than Stuart, who smirks at them with an expression of utmost superiority, and it makes Paul’s skin crawl.

He sighs heavily making his heart splutter under the weight of his lungs, and George nudges him, his eyes flicking to him with a look telling him to ‘ _be nice_ ’.

He trudges over to John in a fit of annoyance, and John lifts an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at his lips.

“‘Ey what ya sulkin’ about?”

Paul grumbles under his breath and sits next to John, his shoulder facing away from him slightly so he gets that Paul’s not entirely happy. Paul knows he can turn cold, and he knows John knows that too, so he’s not surprised when John’s eyes linger on him, his eyebrows furrowed in that way he does when he’s trying to suss out why Paul’s in a mood.

Whilst Paul’s put out by the fact that Stuart’s there, George approaches the older man and holds his hand out.

“I’m George.”

Stuart smiles at him and shakes his hand.

“Stuart.”

George sits next to him and Paul tuts in betrayal causing George to snicker.

“I thought it would be good if Stu joins ‘cause he plays bass and it would help make up for the lack of drums,” John says and he looks over at Stuart with a smile.

Paul knows that Stuart means well, but he knows that now he’s in the band, he’ll have to take a step back from John to keep their secret.

Paul already feels like he’s been hit by a truck and so he doesn’t have it in him to argue. He briefly thinks about maybe asking John if they can let Pete join, but he knows that after their last encounter with the other man, John will shoot him down immediately.

So they run through a rehearsal, and by the end of it Paul has already made up his mind that Stuart is a _shit_ bassist. His timing moves in and out and he's sometimes just straight out of tune and makes the guitar sound like a cat being run over.

Paul is grateful when they’re done, and is quick to put his guitar away before anyone can speak to him. His chest is still killing him, and he thinks maybe he’s caught a cold again. _God, he hopes not._

He says a quick goodbye before he shuffles his way out the hall they’d used to rehearse in.

He hopes no one will catch up to him, though he’s not entirely surprised when the sound of footsteps is heard behind him.

“Paul?”

Paul stops and inwardly sighs before he turns around to look at George.

“Yeah?”

George catches up to him, and so they begin to walk together through the long hallway.

“Stuart’s a nice guy y’know. Try not to ignore ‘im next time.”

George’s words are nice but there’s a slight tang of bitterness and it makes Paul bristle.

“Not in the mood for ya patronizing me like a child, George,” he grumbles, and he can practically feel the glare from George.

“What’s up with ya?”

Paul grunts but doesn’t answer, and George puts a hand on his shoulder to stop him from walking away.

“No, I’m serious Paul. Yer lookin’ pale, like yer gonna keel over.”

Paul frowns and moves George’s hand from his shoulder. 

" ’M fine. Jus’ a cold.”

George eyes him apprehensively but doesn’t comment, and it ends with them walking home in silence.

\--

Paul can feel his heart smack his chest and his lungs wheeze with every breath, but he still steps on the stage, ignoring the worried looks from both John and George. There is no way he’s ditching the gig because he’s feeling a little peaky, and so he walks to his side of the stage, his guitar hung loosely around his hips. He positions it in his hands and clears his throat, wincing as it causes his headache to pound against his skull, before looking at the others for the cue. Instead of nodding, John is frowning at him, his lips pinched tight and displeasing.

Paul ignores him and flicks his eyes over to Stuart, who nods, before strumming out the opening counts to the first song.

They’re about halfway through the set when Paul realises he might be iller than he first thought. The sweat is running like water, and his voice is raspy causing him to miss harmonies in fear of going flat. His chest feels like it’s splitting in two, and he struggles to not grasp at it.

They’re halfway through Peggy Sue, John’s voice straining into the microphone, when it happens. Paul can feel himself sway dangerously, and the splitting ache in his chest makes it difficult to breathe and before he knows it, he’s hit the ground.

There’s a deep pain that’s lodged itself into his chest, and it festers away at his nerves sending pain through him like he’s been jolted by lightning.

John watches it happen, but he’s too slow to react, and he sees as Paul’s guitar smashes underneath him, and his head smacks the floor.

John is quick to stop singing, and he takes his guitar off before sprinting over to Paul.

He has to get him off stage before the crowd gets angry.

He unhooks the guitar strap from Paul’s neck before lifting one of his arms around his shoulders, looking over gratefully when George does the same. Paul’s eyes are glazed over and he looks at them in a daze. Everything is so overwhelming, the pain crushing his chest from the inside out, and he feels himself gasp as they lift him on three, his feet dragging behind them with his head hung low.

“What the fuck happened?” George seethes, though in a hushed whisper as to not alarm the people around them.

“How the fuck would I know?” John snaps. George opens his mouth to say more but John looks over at him, and the look in his eyes must have been enough to answer whatever George was going to ask, as the younger boy shuts up, and they continue down the steps of the stage.

They manage to get Paul through the double doors to the back before lying him carefully on the sofa. George runs off, for what John presumes is help, before John kneels down, holding his fingers against Paul’s wrist, feeling his heart beat unnaturally quick underneath his skin. He smooths Paul’s hair back with one hand, his hand dipping in the liquid pooling at the front of this hairline, panicking slightly at the amount of blood coming from the boy.

He knew from the start he shouldn’t have let Paul on the stage.

He watches as Paul’s chest heaves and shakes and wheezes with every breath and John just wants him to snap out of it and for him to be fine. Paul’s eyes roll over to look at him, and he blinks sluggishly, harsh crackling sounds emitting from his throat.

Mrs Best comes barging in the room, and quickly assesses Paul, before kneeling down next to John, cupping his face in her slim hands. He looks at her with anguish, and she smooths his hair back as he desperately tries to hold in the tears. He doesn’t cry, and especially not in front of people he doesn’t know very well. But the sight of Paul causes his chest to constrict and he lets himself be pulled forwards against Mrs Best’s chest, sobs finally ripping from his throat. She holds him for a while, keeping an eye on Paul as well who seems to get paler by the minute, his eyes staying closed longer with every blink, and she realises they are both _so young._ She usually forgets, when they walk around in leather jackets and gelling their hair, that they’re still kids. And it breaks her heart a little to see them both in so much pain.

George comes running back in, breathlessly murmuring something about ‘ _an ambulance on its way’_ , and John quickly pulls back and wipes at his eyes, sniffling slightly as he looks over at the too still figure on the sofa. John gently taps at Paul’s cheek when he realises his eyes have been closed for too long, and Paul blinks them open, though John knows Paul’s not there. _Not really_.

George asks if he’s okay, but John snaps at him so he stays quiet.

Stuart comes rushing in moments later, three guitars in tow and a look of shock still plastered on his face. He doesn’t say a word and sits next to George on the chair opposite the others.

Paul’s eyes close again, and John taps him only there’s no response, and the sputter of his chest begins to get louder with every breath.

“No Paul c’mon. Open yer eyes.”

John doesn’t know what to do, and when Paul doesn’t react, he’s faced with the cruel reality that Paul might not recover from this. This could be what Paul warned him about. This could be _it_.

The paramedics come bustling through not long after, and they are quick to hook an oxygen mask over Paul’s face before they are moving him onto a stretcher.

“What’s his name and age?” one of the paramedics asks, and John looks around to see if anyone else will answer, but they are all looking at him to reply.

“Err Paul. McCartney. And he’s eighteen.”

The paramedic nods and goes back to looking over Paul before inserting an IV into the crook of his arm, mumbling something to their partner about this looking serious.

He’s whisked away urgently, and it’s so fast John doesn’t have any time to comprehend what’s going on until his best friend’s gone. He stumbles after them, but George pulls him back by tugging on his arm and John turns to the others, frantically clutching at his hair.

“We’ve got to get there. I’ve got to make sure he’s okay,” he splutters, before Mrs Best nods, placing a light hand on his shoulder.

“I can drive ya there lad. I don’t mind.”

He looks at her gratefully before they’re all piling in the car, and then he’s at the hospital, none too patiently waiting for news on Paul.

He paces the waiting room, frantically biting at his nails. The others look just as worried, and George asks him to sit down at one point, but he doesn’t think he can. He needs to keep himself busy; he _needs_ the distraction. He doesn’t want to sit down and think that this could be worse than they thought. That Paul could be _dying_. Or already _dead_. It causes John to nearly throw up at the thought. So he keeps pacing.

After an hour and they’ve still not heard anything, Mrs Best stands up and places a hand on John’s shoulder making him stop.

“Maybe ya should sit down son. Looks like yer gonna pass out on us.”

John shakes his head and she thins her lips.

“No, I need to keep myself busy.”

She nods in understanding and squeezes his shoulder.

“Well, maybe ya could call Mr McCartney an’ tell ‘im his son is here. I’m sure he’ll want to see him.”

 _'I’m not sure he’ll be bothered_ ,’ John thinks but nods anyway and turns to the phone, dialling in the number of Paul’s house.

After a few rings, the receiver picks up and there’s a small ‘ _hello’_ from the other end.

John frowns. “Mike?”

“John? Where’s Paul?”

John sighs and shifts his feet. “Paul’s in hospital. D’ya think you and ya da will be able to come down?”

There’s a fit of silence before Mike answers “Me da’s near passed out an’ I don’t think he’ll wanna see Paul anyway. But I ‘ave no way to get there.”

John sighs. He knew Jim McCartney wouldn’t want to leave his house unless it was to buy more liquor, even if his own son is in hospital. It makes John seethe, but he keeps himself calm for Mike’s sake.

“Mrs Best will come an’ pick ya up an’ bring ya ‘ere. She’s real nice. She’s the one who got me ‘ere.”

He hears Mike move about before he responds with a small ‘ _okay_ ’ and hangs up.

John places the phone back on the wall and looks at the clock.

He doesn’t know how much longer he can take this.

\--

Paul’s arm is itchy. He frowns, not bothering to open his eyes yet, and reaches across to scratch at it, only for his hand to be batted away by some unknown identity. His frown deepens, and it momentarily occurs to Paul that he’s not at home when he realises the sheets are too soft, and he can feel cold air on his chest. As soon as the antiseptic hits his nose he knows where he is. He groans, a noise low in his throat. He’s hasn’t been in a hospital for months and Paul was glad of his standing record. He blinks his eyes open groggily, feeling the effects of the drugs they’ve got him on when he tries to shift, and it’s like he’s in a sea of molasses; like his body moves a second after he’s told it to. He curses low under his breath and turns his had to the side, only to be face to face with none other than John Lennon. It startles Paul for a second, and he pouts at him.

“Hello?”

John’s face flits through a variety of emotions before it crumbles and he pulls away from Paul to lean back in his chair. “You gave me a fuckin’ fright y’know.”

Paul rolls his eyes and leans further back into his pillow, tempted to scratch at his arm, though he now knows it’s only itchy from the IV line, and he’s not in favour of being whacked by John again. His eyes move away from John until they land on another person, who hasn’t said a word, or even reacted since Paul woke up.

“Mike?”

Mike continues to look at Paul, and it’s only then he realises why Mike’s not said anything. He’s _angry_. There’s a scowl on his lips and he’s slumped forward in his chair, but Paul doesn’t think he can deal with a spat right now, so he turns his attention back to John.

“How did ya get in ‘ere anyway? It’s family only isn’t it?”

John chuckles, though it's hollow and flat.

“I told them I was yer brother an’ they didn’t even question it.”

Paul hums, but it dies in his throat when his chest constricts, and he doubles over, gritting his teeth and holding his breath.

“Paul?”

John’s voice is small, and Paul feels a hand touch his shoulder gently, but he can’t respond even if he tries. He hears the scrape of a chair against the floor and a flurry of footsteps, though the hand on his shoulder hasn’t moved, so he presumes Mike has gone to get someone.

“Ya need to breathe Paul. Breathe.”

John’s voice is like a song to Paul’s ears, but he just can’t find it in him to follow his words.

To Paul, it feels like hours, but in a few minutes a doctor comes in and injects him with something, sticking the needle in his IV, and Paul gradually starts to relax. He releases his breath, panting harshly and stating a breathy ‘ _fuck_ ’ before he sinks back into the pillows.

“Glad to see ya awake Mr McCartney.”

He looks up at the doctor, who’s reading his ECG thoroughly, and Paul sighs. He’s glad he’s got his usual doctor because he doesn’t know if he can put up with anybody else. Most other doctors treat him like this is the first time he’s ever been to a hospital, but Doctor Miller takes no shit and Paul admires him for it.

“Paul, how long have ya been feelin’ ill?”

Paul’s eyes travel over to John, who’s looking at him with concern, almost sympathetically, and Paul just wants to wipe the expression off his face. He knows he’s been lying to John for a few weeks about his illness, and he doesn’t want to give away he’s been feeling so bad for so long.

“Why?” Paul says, trying to sound like he doesn’t have a clue how serious this could be. Dr Miller frowns at him.

“You’ve got infective endocarditis son, and it looks like you’ve ‘ad it for some time. How long?”

Paul doesn’t like the stern way the doctor is talking to him, but the way John is looking at him makes him feel guilty about not saying something earlier.

“A few weeks.” It’s mumbled and the doctor scribbles something down onto his clipboard before looking back up at Paul.

“We’ve put ya on some good painkillers and antibiotics which should hopefully clear it up, but we’ll be taking a few blood samples tomorrow to make sure the infection doesn’t progress any more, and that the treatment is working. If everything goes right then you’ll be out in the next few days.”

Paul nods at him, and the doctor walks out of the room, leaving him with a concerned John and a brooding Mike.

Everything is silent for a while, and it occurs to Paul that someone’s missing. His dad. He’s not too surprised that he didn’t turn up, but he hopes he’s not passed out somewhere without anyone to get him.

He turns to the other two and says “Where’s dad?”

Mike lets out a wounded noise and crosses his arms over his chest. Paul lifts an eyebrow.

“Didn’t wanna come. Passed out again weren’t he.” 

Paul’s definitely not surprised at that, and he sighs in relief knowing Mike’s angry at their dad instead of him.

Meanwhile, John’s scooted impossibly closer, his head resting almost in Paul’s lap, and he knows that if Mike wasn’t there he’d have already climbed in the bed next to him.

“What time is it?”

John mumbles something against his leg, but Paul doesn’t have any clue what he said, and so he turns to Mike, who looks like his irritation has simmered down to a more reasonable level.

“’bout ten.”

“But the gig was at six.”

Mike shrugs at him and slumps back in his chair in a sulk.

Paul frowns, slightly disturbed at the amount of time that has passed. He now understands why John’s been so worried. If John had been ill and he’d not heard anything for four hours, he feels like he would’ve gone mad.

“Where are you going to spend the night?”

“At George’s. I’m going home with him in a minute. They won’t let him in to see you so he’s waiting for me outside.”

Paul nods at that, glad that he’s not going home to be alone with his father. Relief swallows him, and he unconsciously pets at John’s head, stroking the short hairs in a way of reassurance. He watches as Mike’s expression changes slightly, and the look strikes Paul with a sense of unease. Mike doesn’t know about his relationship with John, and here he is with John curled over the bed with his head pressed against Paul’s leg, and Paul is tenderly touching his hair.

If Mike didn’t know before, he does now.

Paul opens his mouth to explain, but Mike shakes his head and stands up.

“Ya don’t need to explain Paul. It’s fine.”

Mike gives a tight smile, and Paul just looks at him, quite frankly stunned at his reaction. He feels John shift and move his head to look at Mike. Paul doesn’t want to see the expression on his face, so he keeps his hand in John’s hair and his eyes on Mike. Mike pats Paul’s leg and goes to the door, ready to leave.

“Don’t tell dad.”

Paul’s voice is hushed, and it trembles with anxiety. Mike looks over at him, a hint of a frown making his cheeks taunt as his lips stiffen.

“I won’t.”

\--

As soon as Mike leaves, John lifts his head up, and Paul arches an eyebrow at him.

“D’ya think there’ll be anyone else comin’ in?”

Paul shakes his head. He’s been here many times and knows that the nurses won’t come in again until the morning.

He doesn’t even have time to ask why John was asking before the older man is gently shoving him over, taking off his shoes, and making himself cosy in Paul’s bed.

Paul laughs lightly at him, and John pushes his face into the crook of Paul’s neck, securing Paul in place with a hand around his waist.

“Comfy there?”

John hums against his skin and Paul smiles at him softly. Even though he’s happy to have John with him, he wishes he would’ve closed the window before he got in. His chest is bare, which he knows from experience is because if anything happens the doctors don’t have to worry about his t-shirt being in the way, and he shivers slightly, goosebumps rising over pale skin.

John lifts his head to look at him, and the hand around his waist moves up to thumb at the bare skin on his chest.

“Ya cold?” John asks, and Paul shivers in response and wiggles slightly to try and get more warmth from his partner. John just laughs at him quietly and pulls the blanket up further so that they’re both covered by it. Paul yawns and John brings his fingers up to his face, skating them ever so lightly across the gash on Paul’s forehead that’s been cleaned and covered in a thin bandage.

“Does it hurt?”

"John, I’ve got so many drugs in me that I don’t even feel it.”

John laughs at him before resuming his previous position and Paul’s sighs, letting his eyes shut, content with John being by his side.

“I was so scared y’know.”

It’s whispered, like a silent confession in the depths of a solitude soul, and Paul opens his eyes to look back at John who’s looking at him, his face bubbling over with all the fear and worry he’s held in for the last few hours.

“I know.”

They go back to silence, and John’s hand rubs at his hip hesitantly.

“I love you, Paul.”

Paul blinks. They’d never said it out loud and meant it; never to each other. His heart swells and pounds in his ears and he feels John tense next to him, waiting for him to say something.

“I love you too, Johnny.”

\--

Paul gets out of the hospital two days later prescribed with a list of different medications to help him recover. He had a very big lecture from Dr Miller about learning not to ignore his symptoms until they get this bad, and he leaves the hospital with John in tow two mornings later.

They walk home, not having enough money to get the bus, and John fusses over him the whole way back. Paul knows he means well, but he’s just annoyed that John’s treating him like he’ll break at any minute. He also knows that Dot is more than likely waiting for him, and he knows she’s going to fret too.

“How are ya gettin’ on with ‘er anyway Paul?” John asks, kicking the stones as they walk down the street.

Paul shrugs. “Jus’ kissed ‘er a few times.”

John stops, and Paul frowns and turns around to face him.

“You’ve not fucked ‘er yet?”

Paul twists his face in disgust, slightly mortified that John would bring it up in the first place.

“Why the hell would I do that?” he asks, and John laughs at him.

“You’ve got to do it son. Or she’ll catch on that something’s up.”

Paul continues to look at John like he’s gone mad, and John pats him lightly on the shoulder.

“You’ve done it then?”

“Aye lad. You’ve got to prove that ya like ‘er.”

Paul continues to walk and John stumbles up after him and Paul sighs. “Isn’t that jus’ usin’ her?”

John shrugs and continues to walk, and Paul contemplates what he said. He doesn’t want his first time to be with Dot. He wants it to be with John. Though, if it means they are able to keep their relationship a secret then he’ll go through with it.

They approach his house and Paul can see Dot waiting on the doorstep. It looks like she’s been waiting a while, if the sight of her sat on the doorstep with dishevelled hair and wet eyelashes are anything to go by, but Paul’s just glad she isn’t inside with his father. He doesn’t want her to see the kind of state he’s in. They stop just before his house, outside of Dot’s view, and John takes his hand and squeezes it softly.

“I’ll see ya tomorrow, yeah? Ring me if ya don’t feel well.”

Paul nods at him, resisting the urge to just kiss him there on the street, and instead smiles before watching as John walks away.

Paul takes a deep breath before approaching the house, and he watches as Dot’s eyes lighten up at the sight of him. He smiles at her, and she falls into his arms, grasping at his back as she holds on to him tightly.

“I’m so glad yer okay,” she says, her breath hitting his neck and he holds her tighter. She strokes a hand up and down his back, and he revels in the fact that they are hugging in the street. It’s oddly satisfying, mostly because its something he wishes he and John can have.

She pulls away and smiles before he lets them in, instantly dragging her upstairs before she can get a glimpse of the living room that his dad is surely occupying.

She goes to ask what the hurry is, but he pushes his lips against hers, and she gasps slightly before kissing him back.

It seems to advance from there. Paul is in a sort of daze as he follows her movements, and before he realises it, he’s fucking her in his own bed, and yet he doesn’t feel anything. He doesn’t feel love, or pleasure or even lust. He’s just going and going until he can feel the pull of his orgasm tighten his lower stomach, and he pulls out and comes across his own hand, Dot arching her back and fingers digging in the sheets as she pants. He cleans them up quickly, trying to keep his mind blank before he pulls the covers over the both of them, and she curls around him sweetly, her legs tangling in his own. He closes his eyes and sighs, shifting slightly so that his chest doesn’t feel as constricted.

“I love you, Paul,” she says, and Paul feels sick. He hates this, having to lie to her and use her so that he can keep the relationship he wants. His throat feels thick, and he stutters out a shaky breath.

He pretends to be asleep so he doesn’t have to answer.

\--

“How’s your mum?” John asks as they listen to an old record, and as soon as Paul snaps his head over to John, he can already see the humiliation on his lover’s face. John’s sat by the window, cigarette dangling from his lips, and he shakily breathes the smoke out of the window and flicks ash from the end of his ciggie onto the road below. He purposefully avoids Paul’s eyes, and opens his mouth to apologise, though Paul beats him to it.

“Dead. How’s yours?”

John waits a beat, taken aback that Paul isn’t upset with him before replying “Dead too.”

They both break out into grins before laughing. Paul doesn’t even know what exactly he‘s laughing at but he can’t stop, and from the sounds of it, neither can John. If they stopped it would hurt too much. Paul, still giggling like an idiot, stumbles his way over to the window by John, where the hysterics continue and Paul doesn’t think they could stop if they tried. It has become maniacal, and as they sit on the windowsill he realises they are just two motherless lads from Liverpool with a pipe dream that’s miles away.

So they both continue, and if they ended up sobbing onto each other’s shoulder, no one had to know.

\--

John gets a call in the early summer of 1960. The man’s name is Allan Williams, and over the last few months he’d become somewhat of a manager for them, booking gigs for them in pubs along the Mersey under their new name, ‘The Silver Beetles.’ John and Stuart had come up with it when one of them had mentioned their love for Buddy Holly’s band, ‘The Crickets’. Paul wasn’t sure of it, but he agreed nonetheless, knowing John would only repeatedly annoy him until he gave in anyway.

Allan offers them a bigger job; playing in the clubs and bars in Hamburg and it sounds like a good idea, so Paul is nodding his head desperately as John, who’s got the phone pressed to his ear, rolls his eyes at him.

“Aye, that sounds great. But we don’t ‘ave a drummer.”

Paul makes a few motions with his hands, mouthing ‘ _we do have one_ ’, but John frowns at him and asks Allan to ‘ _hold on_ ’ before pressing the phone to his chest.

“What?”

"We have a drummer. I can ask Pete to come.”

John blinks at him, and opens his mouth as if he’s going to protest, but decides against it and lifts the phone back to his ear, and Paul grins at him.

“Never mind. We ‘ave one. When do ya want to pick us up?”

\--

John goes on about the trip for days, saying it will do them both good to leave Liverpool for a while. 

Paul hopes he's right.

\--

They leave on 16th August, and Allan comes to pick them up in his green Austin van.

They all meet up at John’s house, with Paul and George arriving first and Pete not long after. Paul nearly laughs at the sight of Stuart when he arrives, dressed in a pair of leather trousers and a white shirt with embroidering on the sleeves, and to top it all he’s got a pair of black ray-bans sat on the edge of his nose.

“Ya realise we’re only goin’ to Hamburg,” John says with a smirk, and Stuarts shrugs.

“New country, new me.”

_Still a prick._

Paul’s glad when the van pulls up.

It’s cramped, because not only are there the five of them, Allan has decided to bring his wife and her brother, as well as another friend. They all get into the back of the van, save for Allan and his wife, and Paul huffs as the sight. There are no seats. He sits himself on an amplifier by John, who’s grumbling under his breath, and George sits next to him, and Paul’s glad that it’s not Stuart. Instead, Stuart is sat next to Pete by the drum kit that had been cramped in there, and Paul smirks to himself knowing he’ll get to sit next to John instead.

They travel for about an hour, though it’s not quite the ride Paul expected. They all end up having a good time, and they sing a few Buddy Holly songs, the four guitarists strumming at their instruments whilst laughing at Pete who has to drum the beat against the side of the van. Paul's guitar hadn't been too badly damaged in his fall, and George's dad was able to replace the strings and fix it up, to which Paul's ever thankful for because he wouldn't have been able to afford a new one otherwise.

They arrive in London, and a man jumps into the back of the van with them, proceeding to sit next to Allan’s wife’s brother, before the van moves on.

“Who are you then?” George asks, and the man smiles.

“I’m Herr Steiner. I’m the translator.” His accent is thick, but he doesn’t sound German. Paul and George had both taken German at school, so they can understand some of it, but in no way are they experts, so he’s glad they’ve got someone to help them speak as not to cause misunderstandings.

They eventually arrive on the ferry, and John is rubbing at his eyes and yawning, and Paul wonders whether he had gotten any sleep last night. Paul himself had spent the night packing quietly and sending Mike off to George’s house for the time they are away. Paul is so very grateful for Louise Harrison and knows that if it wasn’t for her, he wouldn’t have been able to go. He’d also left the house early in the morning, as not to wake his dad. He was too scared to leave any later in case his dad caught him going because then he’d make him stay at home, and Paul just couldn’t risk that.

They all find themselves bored after a while, and even though Andy’s put the radio on in the front, they all just can’t be bothered to do anything. Paul looks over to John, watching as the older man shifts in his sleep, and Paul’s sure he definitely didn’t get any sleep last night. Pete is lazily tapping his drum sticks on the floor of the van, and Stuart and George have decided to occupy their time playing cards. Paul watches, and it looks as if George is winning, but he doesn’t comment.

After sitting in the same spot for a few hours, Paul so desperately wants to stretch his legs, and so taps on the window that separates them from Allan.

“Can I get out for a bit?”

Allan nods and waves a hand at him, and Paul moves over to John, shaking him awake.

John groans and opens one eye with a scowl.

_If looks could kill._

“Do you wanna get out with me?”

John sighs and stretches his legs, reminding Paul of the cat that used to sometimes sit in his garden, before he stands, tiredly rubbing at his eyes.

They step over George and Stuart’s card game before hopping out the back of the van. It’s freezing, which isn’t surprising since they’re in the middle of the sea, and Paul pulls his coat tighter. The coat is the same one George’s mum had made him wear for their hitchhiking trip, and when they’d come back, she made him keep it.

“ _There’s no one else that needs it, Paul. Keep it_ ,” she had said, and Paul was ever thankful for it.

The air smells kind of like what it’s like at the docks, only less acrid and more salty. It still makes Paul turns his nose up, and as the ferry sways, he can feel his stomach churn.

“Yer lookin’ a bit peaky,” John says, giving him a scrutinizing glance.

“’M fine. Jus’ never been a fan of boats.”

John laughs at him and they move around the van and onto the main deck of the ferry. John mumbles something about ‘ _going for a piss_ ’, and Paul watches him walk away before shouting at him not to pee over the side of the boat. He’s left on the deck waiting for John, and a poster on the wall catches his eye. It’s a picture of a young girl, and the headline states ‘MISSING: GIRL RAN AWAY FROM HOME’. It makes him stop and frown. He wonders if there would’ve been a poster put out if he had run away when he was younger, though he thinks his parents probably would’ve been glad that he’d gone. He stares at the picture, the smiling face of the teenager looking back. She looks happy; her hair is in a pin-up, and she’s got make-up shadowing her eyes, and Paul wonders what her reason was for running away. Maybe she had no friends. Maybe she wanted to be alone. Or maybe she came from a loveless family like him. A dangerous feeling hits his chest, the same sort of feeling that would envelop him when he would hide himself in the bathroom. The same kind of feeling that harrowed him in the weeks after John’s mum died.

He takes a shaky breath and moves away from the poster. He can’t feel like that. Not today. He presses the heels of his palm against his eyes and is glad that when he blinks them open, John is walking back towards him, though he’s looking at him with furrowed brows, eyeing him with concern.

“You sure yer alright Paul?”

It’s in these moments Paul wishes he can just hug John, fall against him and let him hold him, and he despises that he can’t just do that. Even as friends, it’ll risk arrest and abuse from the people around them. So Paul sniffs and nods, not quite trusting his voice to prove that he’s okay. John pats him on the shoulder, squeezing it slightly, and Paul’s glad for the physical touch, even if it isn’t much. He knows John will ask him later when they’re out of the public eye, but Paul doesn’t think he has an answer for him.

His head is still foggy as they walk back to the car, and John stays quiet, observing him out of the corner of his eye. Paul’s walking on autopilot, his feet shuffling against the floor as they make their way towards the van, and John puts a hand in between his shoulder blades as they climb into the back. It’s a vain attempt at comforting him, but Paul’s smiles at him anyway.

It’s only another hour before they find themselves in Holland, sat back on their amplifiers as Allan drives them off the ferry and into the country.

Paul is slumped against John whilst the older man strums lazily at his guitar. Pete is asleep, his head resting on the bass drum, and Paul momentarily thinks that when he wakes up he’s going to regret that position. Stuart and George are still at their card game, only now they’re on round five, and George has won that past four which has made Stuart quite frustrated. Paul doesn’t know how George does it, because as far as he was aware George was not a card game expert. Either that, or Stuart is just shit at it.

The van stops after a while, and they can hear Allan swearing in the front seat. Paul pulls himself away from John to allow the other man to stand up and tap loudly on the window.

“What’s goin’ on?”

They hear Allan huff before he says “Took a wrong turn. We’ll ‘ave to stay ‘ere for the night because it’s already late.”

John complains quite noisily, but they all filter out into the street.

“We’re in fuckin’ Arnhem,” George proclaims loudly after reading one of the road signs, a petulant look on his face that causes John to muffle a laugh into the collar of his jacket. George bats at his arm which only causes John to laugh louder.

“Is this the Arnhem where the parachuters landed in the war?” Pete asks, scratching at his hair.

“Aye. The cemetery’s not far from ‘ere. Do ya wanna ‘ave a look?” Allan asks, and they all agree to check it out whilst they’re there. Well, everyone except Paul. He doesn’t exactly want to go to a place full of dead people, hell, he'd never even managed to visit his own mother's grave, but it seems as though he doesn’t have a choice. So they all pile back into the van and head towards the cemetery.

When they arrive, Allan and his party split off in search of a hotel, which leaves just the band to explore.

The cemetery is cold, and Paul rubs his hands together as he looks at the thousands of headstones. There’s a disconcerting atmosphere, and Paul follows the group silently at the back, his eyes flitting over every headstone. John slows down so that’s he walking with Paul. He doesn’t say anything, and his head is down, avoiding Paul’s eyes. Paul guesses it’s just as unsettling for him, especially because its rare to find John even going to his own mother’s headstone. He does go though, sometimes, which is where John and Paul differ.

There’s a monument to the side, and they all clump around it and Pete shoves a camera in John’s hand excitedly. Paul sits on the front step whilst Pete and George sit on the step behind him. Stuart stands just off to his right, and Paul just _knows_ that Stuart’s standing up to add pronunciation on the fact that he’s the oldest in the group, and therefore, apparently, the best.

‘ _Dickhead_ ,’ Paul thinks, trying not to roll his eyes as the shutter goes off.

Paul watches as John hands the camera back to Pete before saying “I think we should go somewhere else now.”

Paul agrees with him almost instantly, and the rest concur after complaining about it getting colder.

After walking out of the cemetery and down the street for a while, John starts to perk up and leads them to a music shop enthusiastically after spotting it from the end of the road. The shop is filled with different guitars and drums and other instruments, though Paul thinks that it’s just like the one they have back at home. He thought that coming to a new country would bring new sights and inspirations, but the only things they’ve seen so far they can see either in Liverpool or just outside of it.

He hears John snicker beside him and turns around to find him smirking, a look of iniquitous plastered on his face. It’s a look Paul’s seen when John’s nicked a few sweets from the shop, or when he’d wind up George, and Paul frowns at him. He’s doing something, Paul knows it. He just hopes whatever he does, he won’t get caught for it.

There’s a guitar on the wall, painted in white with delicate strings, and Paul’s eyes land on it. It’s the kind of guitar he dreamed of as a kid, and he lets his fingers briefly lie on the strings. He hopes that someday, he’ll be able to play a guitar like that. He hopes that these Hamburg gigs will give him enough money, and he’ll buy one just like the one he’s looking at. To hold and play something so beautiful is Paul’s dream, but he takes his hand away from the instrument and sighs.

“Nice one that is,” John says after approaching him silently causing Paul to startle slightly.

“Yeah. I like it.”

"You’d look like a right rocker with that Macca,” John says with a smile, and Paul smiles back, though it feels foreign on his face after not entirely breaking from a depressed-riddled frown for the majority of the day. It makes John smile wider, the side of his eyes crinkling, and Paul laughs at him.

Paul finds out the reason for John’s earlier guilty expression once they leave the shop. They walk away from the store, and once they’re further down the street, John chuckles before reaching into his pocket and taking out a small instrument.

 _Of course, he stole a bloody harmonica_.

John laughs at their faces, and Paul doesn’t know whether to laugh with him or reprimand him.

Before anyone can say anything, Allan approaches them after crossing the street, and John is quick to hide his robbery back in the safety of his jacket.

“I’ve found a hotel for the night if yer ready to come back.”

It’s already half dark, and they suppose it’s probably best to head back now so they get enough sleep because Paul just _knows_ Allan will be waking them up before it’s light again.

At the hotel, they follow Allan up the stairs until they approach a string of doors. It’s a nice hotel, Paul thinks, and he’s glad that’s it's _so_ much warmer than outside. The walls are cream, accented lightly by a spread of flowers across the panelling, and it doesn’t look dirty or old, and he wonders just how much this had cost Allen.

Allen turns to them with two keys, and the boys frown.

“After me and my guests booked in, there were only two more rooms. One has three beds, and the other has two, so ya can decide between yerselves who’s sharin’ with who.”

He hands the keys to John before motioning to their suitcases that he’d left by the doors, then bids them goodnight and walks off towards his room.

“Me and Paul share,” John declares before anybody else has a chance to say anything. Paul can feel George’s eyes on him, and he turns his head to look at him. George is obviously very aware of the reasons why John and Paul are sharing, and sniggers at him when Paul pulls an innocent face.

They all say goodnight and split off into their separate rooms, lugging their suitcases in with them.

As soon as they’re in the room, John flops onto the bed closest to the door with a loud groan, letting his suitcase drop to the floor. Paul’s too tired and cold to say anything, and he’s quick to strip down, leaving him in just his t-shirt and his boxers, before crawling under the sheets on the side of the single bed that John’s not occupied. The bed is soft, probably the comfiest one he’s ever been in, and it's a stark comparison to his bed at home. John rolls off it to stand moments later, taking off all his clothes except his underwear, and climbs into bed next to Paul. Paul is quick to curl around him, and John hums appreciatively.

“Why were ya upset earlier?”

Paul shifts slightly, pressing his face against John’s shoulder.

“Jus’ a bad day y’know.”

John strokes Paul’s hand gently in response. 

Paul is still cold, even after being under the covers for so long, and he wriggles his numb toes, brushing them against John’s legs.

“Aren’t ya cold?” Paul asks against John’s neck as he shivers slightly.

“No. Why, are you?”

Paul nods, and John suddenly moves, turning Paul over in the process, before pressing himself against Paul’s back, hooking a leg between his. He moves his arms so that they hug Paul against him, splaying his hands over the light fabric of his t-shirt.

John is warm around him, and Paul relishes in it; not only the heat but also the closeness, something they’ve not had the whole day. Paul laces their hands together on his chest, and soon the shivers start to stop and he starts to gain some feeling in his toes.

He’s missed this, the intimacy of John’s touch, and he sighs softly.

“I’ve missed ya, Johnny,” Paul says quietly, and John presses a kiss to the side of his neck, squeezing Paul’s hands.

“I never left, Paul.”

\--

They arrive in Hamburg the next evening after spending a full day in the back of Allan’s van. They’re greeted by a burly man by the name of Bruno Koschmider, and he stands over them with a condescending smile that makes Paul’s skin crawl.

They follow him towards the Reeperbahn, whilst Allan follows in the van, neon lights buzzing over the infamous district whilst the sound from the clubs can be heard from even outside. The man has a thick German accent, and even though Paul had taken German at school, he’s still not sure what the man says.

They arrive at a club, a large sign above it with the word ‘Kaiserkeller’ written on it in red-painted letters. Paul gathers Koschmider is the owner, because he lets them in and shows them the stage. It’s made of planks of wood balanced on the top of beer crates, and Paul nearly laughs at the sight.

He wonders how long that’s going to last.

He looks over to John who’s picking at the chipped wood on one of the chairs, and smiles.

‘ _This is one step closer_ ’, he thinks.

And he’s away from home. Away from his dad. Away from the hospital.

 _Away_. _Away_. _Away_.

\--

They aren’t the only band playing at the Kaiserkeller and have to do back to back gigs with ‘ _Rory Storm and the Hurricanes_ ’, who have also come from Liverpool per Allan’s request. They’re a nice band, and Paul loves that he can meet so many people with the same interests.

He watched Rory the first night and was impressed by the way he sold the show, a showman in his element, and Paul only hoped they were that good.

The first night, they all felt so unnerved by the lack of crowd and unknown surroundings that they huddled around the microphone like it was their saviour, and to make it worse, after a few songs Koschmider yelled at them to turn their amplifiers down after a noise complaint. Their guitar work was shaky at best, and they nervously harmonised their way through the lighter songs, eyes darting between the unconcerned prostitutes dangling from men’s laps and the drunks watching them through lidded eyes as they slouched over the tables.

The night did end on a positive note, landing them in Koschmider’s spare bedroom, however, all crowded together on one double mattress. Paul was quick to slip in between Stuart and John, taking John’s hand in his own under the duvet, away from prying eyes, and Paul’s chest relaxed when John squeezed his hand back.

That was a luxury compared to the nights after.

They find themselves having to sleep in the Bambi Kino, a cinema a few streets away from the Reeperbahn, where they sleep in bunk beds with about three inches between the beds.

It’s the late afternoon, two hours before their first gig of the night, and Paul dozes on his bed after wrapping himself tightly in the thin duvet, trying to catch up on sleep after playing four gigs a day for two weeks. John is on the bunk opposite, fingers picking at the withering plaster on the wall, as he keeps his eyes on his sleeping mate.  
The other three are out to the shops, and John just wants some time with Paul. _Alone_. They haven’t even been able to touch each other properly since they left home, and John is aching for just a peck.

But Paul is asleep. If he was an unselfish boyfriend, he would let Paul sleep. But he’s so desperate, and this might be their only time for a while, that he lets his self-regarding thoughts drive him to shake Paul awake.

Paul grumbles and attempts to stave off John’s attack by rolling over, but John doesn’t relent. Paul blinks his eyes open, a pout settling on his lips.

“What? I was sleepin’.”

“We’re alone.”

Paul quirks an eyebrow at that and unwraps himself from the confines of his blanket to sit himself in John’s lap, their faces practically touching.

“Eager much?”

Paul laughs, his nose against John’s. John wastes no time, and catches Paul’s lips against his own, feeding his desire with hot, messy kisses, occasionally nipping at Paul’s bottom lip, making the younger man gasp against him.

“Missed me?” Paul murmurs after regrettably pulling away.

“You have no idea,” John replies, before he pulls Paul back in, a hand fisting in his hair.

Their lips move together before John moves down, gently pressing kisses to Paul neck before reaching the spot just by his ear, eliciting a few breathy ‘ _ah ah ah’s_ ’ from Paul.

“We can’t,” Paul breathes, but John just keeps his lips against Paul’s neck.

“They’ll be back any minute now. We’ve got to get ready.”

Although John tries to protest, Paul gives him one last kiss before moving out of his lap, making John slump forward with a huff.

“Paul,” John whines and Paul hums as he digs through his suitcase for a fresh shirt.

“But Paul I’m horny.”

Paul snorts and starts to unbutton his top. “No fuckin’ chance, son. They’ll walk in any minute.”

John gives an exaggerated sigh, not attempting to move from his slumped position, and Paul throws a shirt at him.

“Get ready.”

“Ya sound like Mimi.”

“If ya don’t move yer arse I’ll hit ya with my washrag,” Paul says in an obnoxious impression of Aunt Mimi, his voice raising several octaves higher.

John cackles and moves to put his shirt on like Paul is when the other three bandmates walk in.

“Ya know we’re on in an hour,” Paul says, his aim mostly directed a George who flips him the bird before moving to get changed like the others.

George announces shortly that he’s going to the bathroom if anyone wants to join him. John and Paul volunteer leaving Pete and Stuart to finish getting changed.

The public bathroom is grimy and small and Paul is just glad no one else is in there. They take to the sinks, George washing his face whilst Paul combs his hair back into the perfect quiff it was in before John ruined it. The sound of water catches their attention and they turn their heads to see John stood at one of the urinals, and George makes a disgusted noise.

“Do ya have to piss when we’re getting ready?”

John feigns shock and says “ _this is a public bathroom sir. You should know better than to look at someone when they’ve got their dick out_ ,” his voice mimicking a posh Londoner as he tuts and shakes his head.

George only rolls his eyes, not even bothering to reply and Paul laughs at him.

“It stinks in 'ere,” George complains, and Paul has to agree it does smell of stale piss and whatever other rank things that go in public toilets. Paul’s glad when they finally leave, and they meet Stuart and Pete outside their bedroom before walking over to the Kaiserkeller, the neon lights glaring down on the Reeperbahn as it starts to darken.

The gig is the same as usual, only now they’ve accumulated a small crowd of women that have become infatuated with them, seating themselves as close to the stage as they can.

Paul and John fly through their solos, encouraged by the enthusiastic clapping from the girls, and they go to play their last number for the night when Stuart pulls them to the side.

“I wanna do a solo.”

Paul glowers at him. He’s surprised he’s not pulled out the cord for Stuart’s bass yet with how bad he’s been playing and thinks it’s stupid to give him a solo. Obviously John doesn’t think the same and nods his head at him enthusiastically before asking for the song and letting Stuart take his microphone.

Stuart croons out ‘Love Me Tender’, and it momentarily disturbs Paul how the man has gone from the worst bassist to walk the earth, to someone who can perfectly synchronise his guitar to his voice in one song. The girls in front applaud Stuart with loud screams and soft sighs, and Paul’s sure one of them is crying by the time the song is finished.

Stuart steps back and takes a bow before briefly making eye contact with Paul, who is sure the patronising look on Stuart’s face makes him look even more like a pretentious dick than he did before.

They play their last song and leave the stage, abandoning their instruments with Allan, who stores them in the back room.

They sit at the bar, and Paul can hear George practically worshipping Stuart for his performance. He sits next to John and orders them both a pint, and the bartender gives them the first one ‘ _on the house_ ’ because the performance was so good. The gesture is nice but it only seems to send Paul into an even worse mood. Of course, he and John bust their arses trying to better their show every night, but it’s Stuart who gets the overall title of best player, even though it's obvious he finds it’s difficult to differentiate the A string from the fucking D string.

He feels a tap on his shoulder, and he turns to John who’s smirking at him, a knowing look in his eyes.

“Jus’ because he got the crowd tonight doesn’t mean he’s the best y’know.”

Paul looks down at his beer, feeling the cold glass in his hand. “Yeah, I know.”

“Good.”

John finishes his beer quickly, and Paul watches in confusion because John doesn’t usually down a drink so fast unless he’s in a hurry.

“I’m going back. Not feelin’ well,” John announces to the group, wiping a hand over his mouth to get rid of the froth on his top lip, and Paul frowns. He’s only drank half of his beer, but he leaves it in favour of following John.

“I’m gonna go with ‘im. Need to sleep,” he says, and the others just nod at him, with George adding ‘ _we’ll be back by eleven_.’

When Paul turns around, John’s already walking away, and he quickly catches up to him, though neither of them says a thing until they reach the Bambi Kino. As soon as they enter their little bedroom, John presses Paul against the closed door with a thud, pressing his mouth against Paul’s in desperation.

“I knew ya weren’t really sick,” Paul says after John’s pulls away to breathe.

“Maybe not, but ya were concerned enough to follow me back though weren’t ya?”

The look in John’s eyes is dark, yet ethereal, like dark sunshine during a total solar eclipse. It makes Paul gasp silently, and their eyes lock before their lips meet again.

The kiss isn’t pretty, but it’s one steeped in a passion that ignites a promise of togetherness. The hint of old beer and stale smoke lingers, and Paul delves into his mouth after being granted permission, his hands moving to grasp lightly at the back of his neck. The taste of cheap liquor burns at his tongue, and he inhales as it moves down his throat and into his chest as John’s tongue is pressed intensely against his own. He lets himself breathe, lost in the salvation of their bodies touching, _caressing_ , before he moves down again, peppering butterfly kisses against John’s collarbone where his shirt’s opened slightly. John moans softly and tugs on Paul’s arm to get him to move to the bed, and Paul lets his lips leave John’s skin to instead straddle him once he’s seated on the mattress. Their lips are back together, reuniting after a short time before John breaks it to pant against his lips.

“What do ya wanna do?”

Paul shrugs and peppers light kisses against John’s jaw making the older man sigh.

“Blow me.”

Paul stops what he’s doing to look back at John, who’s expression changes when he looks at Paul’s worried gaze.

“Please tell me you’ve had one before.”

When Paul’s expression doesn’t change, John shakes his head muttering a comment of ‘ _that selfish bitch_ ’ before pushing Paul off him. Paul thinks he must have upset him with his lack of knowledge, but instead, John pats the bed with a smile.

“Lie down.”

Paul complies with him instantly, and John crawls on top of him to press a kiss to the side of his neck before trailing them down, opening his shirt as he goes, until he lands at the hem of Paul’s jeans.

Paul raises himself on his elbows so he can see what’s going on, and watches as John pulls his zipper down agonizingly slow, almost teasing, and he lifts his hips so that John can pull both his trousers and his pants off in one swift motion. His dick springs free, and he wants to be embarrassed, but the look on John’s face is enough for him to feel comfortable. And then John leans down to kitten lick at the head, causes Paul to moan, throwing his head back in divine pleasure. He’s never felt anything like it, never had anything as good. And as John’s mouth envelopes him and bobs his head, Paul can even say that it’s better than fucking Dot. John’s tongue curls around him, whilst his hand moves to the base and Paul whimpers when John does something particularly good that causes a spark of _something_ he can’t quite describe jolt through him, and he thrusts his hips, though is stopped quickly when John places an arm over them to keep them pressed to the bed. He pants, his chest heaving up and down, and the sight of John looking up at him through his lashes sets him over the edge.

“John… Johnny,” he manages to pant, a warning that John ignores, and then he’s coming into John’s mouth, his back arched, and his eyes closed. When he comes down from his high, John pulls away and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, smirking at Paul’s flushed face. Paul watches as John starts to undress himself, ready to get himself off, when Paul stops him, crawling over to kiss at John’s back making the older man still. John hums at the way Paul’s lips drag down in fluttering kisses before Paul moves back up.

“Let me take care of you.”

Paul whispers it against the shell of his ear, and he watches John shiver in anticipation. He pushes John to lie back down, and kisses down his stomach, following the trail of curls until he gets to his dick, nuzzling at the hair before John whines at him to ‘ _get on with it_ ’.

Paul does as he’s told, though nervously, and licks as a stripe from his balls all the way up to the tip, before flicking his eyes up to John to make sure it was the right move. John’s face is red, and his head is resting back against the headboard, showing the way the muscles in his neck flex, and Paul guesses his movements must have been right. He mimics what John did to him, and takes his dick into his mouth before swirling his tongue around the tip, hearing John swear under his breath. He takes it in wholly and sucks, before bobbing his head a few times, and John’s hand slides into his hair and grips, causing Paul to swallow with shock, which only causes John’s hand to tighten. Paul continues what he’s doing, feeling a little gross for the amount of drool dripping from the corners of his mouth, and he presses his tongue flat before John comes. There’s no warning, only the sight of John tensing and a sharp intake of breath. Paul pulls off, choking slightly, and spits the come into his hand with a grimace.

“Its an acquired taste,” he hears John mumble, his eyes closed with a hand on his stomach, and Paul sneers at him. He really wishes John had warned him. As some sort of payback, he wipes his soiled hand onto John’s bedsheets and laughs when John opens his eyes and swats at him.

“Yer so dirty,” John says, and Paul shoots him an innocent look which causes John to laugh and pull his face back into the kiss. Their lips meet gently, like the transition from rain to sun in the summer, and Paul hums sweetly until he pulls away.

“Was tha’ okay for ya then?”

He watches anxiously at John’s straight face before it breaks into a grin and he sighs in relief.

“It was brilliant, Macca.”

\--

“What are they?”

“Preludin. It’ll help you stay awake longer,” Allan says, handing them a small bottle of tablets each. Paul shakes a pill into his hand and looks over at John who’s doing the same.

“So yer tellin’ us to take drugs?” George asks, and Allan sighs deeply before putting the extras in his bag. 

"They’ll help.”

And with that, he’s gone.

With the five of them in there, the bedroom feels small, and the sight of the little white pill in his palm makes him nervous.

“Are we gonna take these John?” Pete asks, his voice reflecting the lack of confidence he has about taking them, though the eagerness to know John's opinion slips through his words making Paul smirk slightly. 

John shrugs. “Why not.”

On three they take the pill, and Paul immediately hopes that it’s not something stupid that will make them go crazy. He remembers his brother telling him about a boy at his school that took a pill down the back of the bike shed and they had to call the school nurse because he spaced out in the middle of class. That would be no good if it did that to them; they need energy not sleep.

By the time their last gig of the day comes around, Paul is sure the drug is doing something. He feels… wonderful. The remnants of lost sleep have been shaken away, and when they hit the stage it’s the most exuberant performance they’ve done since arriving. The rush of adrenaline doesn’t fade, and as he screams out the words to ‘Long Tall Sally’, he feels himself practically bouncing off the walls.

It seems as if they aren’t the only ones to have taken it, because as soon as they’re done the next band is on, and Rory comes strutting on the stage with some sort of newfound confidence, and if Paul thought he was a performer before, he’s shocked by the almost different person that walks on the stage.

Paul’s having fun, and the mix of alcohol seems to keep his spirits up longer. He and John sit at the bar, and they giggle uncontrollably as Rory climbs on top of one of the amps, blasting out the lyrics of ‘Blue Suede Shoes’, his legs wiggling in an impression of Elvis. The laughter becomes contagious, and soon all five Beetles are laughing along the bar, and the bartender gives them a glare. They choose to ignore it in favour of whistling at Rory as he jumps down from the amplifier and prances around, before stepping off the stage to lilt the end of the song to a bunch of girls sitting in the front table, and they cheer when one of them presses a giggly kiss to his cheek. They become rowdier by the minute, and soon the bartender is yelling at them in German and they hurry out before anything can escalate.

“God I wish we’d heard about these earlier,” John says, and Paul laughs as they make their way back to the Bambi Kino, yelling a rendition of ‘That’ll Be The Day’ which earns a newspaper thrown at them from out someone’s window, and they run away in a fit of laughter as an onslaught of, what Paul thinks is, German swearing follows them until they’re safe inside the old cinema.

It seems though, that the high would crash eventually.

It isn’t unknown that there’s a rift between Paul and Stuart, but the longer they’re around each other, the more the tensions rise, and it finally comes to a head on a Thursday night in the late September.

Stuart had made a snide remark at Paul after their first show of the night, but Paul manages to let it go in favour of following John to the bar to get a few beers and some prellies. But by the time the last shows comes around, Paul realises that he hasn’t quite let it go like he thought he had.

 _Better luck next time McCartney_.

The words seem to simmer in the back of his mind like a furnace ready to explode, and he angrily strums at his guitar to try and keep the rhythm going due to Stuart’s lack of basic guitar skills. And it grates on him like nothing else because Stu shouldn’t have been in the band in the first place.

The last song finishes and Paul turns his head to look over at John, and instead sees Stuart already putting his bass away and is close, no, _too close_ , to John and he snaps.

Paul would never consider himself a violent man, but in this instant, all rational thoughts have vanished. He puts his guitar down and after a few strides, soccers Stuart right in the cheek. The older man stumbles back in shock but is quick to give just as much as he got. He tackles Paul at the waist, making his back smack the ground, consequently winding him and giving Stuart the chance the gain the upper hand. He hits Paul around the face twice, and Paul can feel his teeth collide with the side of his cheek and his nose crunch under the force of Stuart’s fist. But Paul’s been in enough fights to know that if he doesn’t move now, he’ll lose. So he brings his leg up and knees Stu in the stomach before rolling so he’s back on top again to throw a few punches.

They roll around for quite some time, hitting and scratching and kicking at each other before someone’s yelling and they’re being pulled apart. They’re separated, and Paul glares at Stuart as the other man spits blood onto the stage, earning a few swears from Koschmider who’s running through the club in a bout of fury.

“ _Was zum Teufel machst du da_?” is spat at them, and Paul is pretty sure one of the words means fuck, but none of them answer, or at least Paul doesn’t think so, as he’s hastily dragged out of the club by John, and he doesn’t stop or even talk to him before they arrive at the Bambi Kino.

John shuts the door with a slam, and Paul can practically _see_ the anger radiating off of him.

“What the fuck were ya doin’?”

Paul does have an answer, but he can’t exactly say because he’s jealous, so he just sighs and sits on one of the beds, wincing as he bends and his stomach protests. He hears John sigh before the bed dips next to him, and John places his hands on Paul’s face to turn it in his direction. His eyes inspect Paul’s face, and he prods at his evidently bruised cheek and split lip, earning a hiss from Paul. John disappears shortly after, still not saying anything to Paul. Paul feels like he’s at Mimi’s getting the silent treatment on John’s behalf, only now he knows it’s his fault. He licks his lip, a metallic taste coating his mouth and he grimaces.

John comes back with a small bag in tow, which looks to be the first aid kit belonging to the cinema, and he opens it up and pulls out a small plaster and a cloth, before pulling a bottle of vodka out from under his bed. Paul doesn’t question it, but he’s obviously got a puzzled look on his face for John smirks at him. He watches as John pours some of the vodka onto the cloth before he dabs it as his face. Paul instantly scrunches his face up with a pained yelp, instinctively pulling away before John holds his jaw between his fingers to keep him in place. He begins prodding at his hairline before pressing the cloth over it, and Paul realises that the cut from his last fall back in England has probably reopened slightly. A plaster is placed over it, and John apologises quietly as the fabric presses into the cut.

“Lift yer shirt.”

There’s no room for argument and so Paul does as he’s told, watching as John’s face morphs into a sympathetic frown.

“Macca, what 'ave ya done?”

Paul frowns, confused as to what John could be referring to, only to look down and see his stomach covered in purple bruises, and John turns him around to poke at his back where it’s also realised that the back of his ribs are also bruised. Paul guesses its from the impact of hitting the floor with a fully grown man on top of him.

John softly rubs some sort of cream over his bruises, before he packs the kit away and slips it under his bed. He takes a swig of the vodka before handing it to Paul who does the same.

“I’m not ‘appy with you ya know.”

Paul sighs and takes another pull of the bottle. “I know.”

John is quick to swipe the liquor from his hands before putting the top on and rolling it back under his bed. He turns to Paul and kisses him lightly on the nose. 

“Good. Now go to bed.”

\--

By the late October, Paul finds himself only able to play the gigs when he’s high on a few prellies because they just can’t find the time to actually _sleep_.

They play four gigs a night, catch a few hours sleep if they can before the cinema starts to play its films which blare through the walls, and then they’re back up again. They usually spend their days with Rory and his band somewhere on the Reeperbahn, which is why he currently finds himself draped across a chair in the back corner of some sleazy cafe.

George is sat idly talking with Ringo, Rory’s drummer, and Paul has noticed over the past few weeks that George is actually becoming good friends with the older man. His attention moves over to Rory who’s sat with his legs propped up on the table, deep in conversation with John and Stuart, whilst Pete listens between them.

“I bet ya we’ll break the stage before you,” John says, and Rory laughs, moving his feet from off the table to slouch back into his chair, before extending a hand over the table towards John.

“The winner buys the drinks.”

John takes his hand with a chuckle, whilst his other hand moves under the table to tap at Paul’s knee.

“Deal.”

And so they spend their next gig jumping with their guitars as much as they can, but the planks of wood only creak and groan in protest, and to the Beetles disappointment, the stage doesn’t break.

However, after a few days of punishing the stage between both groups, the Beetles are able to stamp on it enough for a crack to form, and so they’re sure by their next gig it will break.

Only it doesn’t.

So they sit watching Rory perform, and Paul is internally praying that it won’t break.

Rory is performing his extraordinary edition of ‘Blue Suede Shoes’, only this time he climbs the upright piano, and Paul cringes at the thought that Rory could fall off with any wrong step. Rory croons, and sways, and then _jumps_. Paul’s heart’s in his throat as he watches Rory land straight on the crack, and the stage consequently makes a loud snap, and soon Rory is sat on a pile of broken wood, the stage split into a V-shape around him, taking Ringo’s drums too.  
Paul and John hurry over, but Rory is standing up and _laughing_.

“Guess ya owe us a round then mate,” Rory says, laughing even more at the sight of John’s bewildered face.

Though, they’re all quick to scramble out the club when Koschmider starts yelling at them, throwing pieces of woods at their backs as they run off.

They head back to the cafe they first made the bet in, deciding it best not to go to any of the clubs Koschmider owns in case they’re jumped by him for ruining his stage.

They take the table in the corner again, and Rory hands out a few ciggies.

“Y’now I didn’t think you’d be able to do it,” Paul says, taking a drag of his cigarette.

Rory laughs. “Yeah neither did I.”

They spend the rest of the night, or the early hours of the morning, in the dingy twenty-four-hour cafe, and they drink a few coffee’s and take a few prellies before a large hand is slapped on Rory’s shoulder.

Both bands look over to see three very large men with coshes, and Paul looks over at John with wide eyes.

“Koschmider isn’t happy with what you’ve done to his club.”

The German accent is thick but it’s clear what their intentions are, and Paul watches as Rory raises his hands in surrender.

“Relax. We’ll still play there.”

The snide comment obviously wasn’t what they wanted, and the man whacks Rory around the head with the stick and then that’s it.

A fight breaks out almost instantly, and Paul swings for one of the men, landing a fist to his throat making him gag and stumble back into John, who stubs his cigarette out on his shoulder. The man practically wails, but is quick to strike John in the stomach, and then again across the jaw. Paul gets the same fate when he right hooks the man in the ribs, and he falls back to join John on the floor.

Soon, all of them are out for the count, and the largest man has a hold on Rory, tugging on his hair violently.

“Don’t bother coming back.”

He spits on Rory’s face and drops him to the floor before the three men leave.

The woman who owns the place screams at them to get out, and they all struggle to get up before they leave, back out onto the Reeperbahn.

“That was fun but we’re goin’,” Rory says, a hand pressed tightly to his ribs, and a pained expression on his face making his eyes squint and his lips taut.

John nods at him and the two bands split ways, the cold making their cuts sting and their ribs move with every step.

Paul now knows never to piss off a rich German man who owns several top places on the Reeperbahn, and he presumes the other four do too.

The kick to the chest he got at some point is messing with him, and he wheezes with every breath and hopes to god that it doesn’t mean another trip to the hospital.

He dry swallows a prellie and moves on.

\--

They wake up to banging on their door, and Paul can hear John huff before he gets out of bed, his hair dishevelled whilst only where his y-fronts and a t-shirt, and opens the door.

Two policemen step forward, and Paul instantly thinks Koschmider’s gotten them arrested. He panics, and his eyes meet George who’s reflecting his anxiety, chewing on his bottom lip in trepidation.

“Mr Harrison?”

George’s eyes go wide and he breaks eye contact with Paul to look over at the policeman, raising his hand feebly.

“Yeah?”

"It’s become apparent that you aren’t of age, and so we’ve come to deport you back to England.”

 _Koschmider_.

He’s the only one that knows George isn’t eighteen yet, and Paul bets he’s done this to get back at them.

George quickly gathers his stuff under the gaze of the officers, and Paul gives him a reassuring smile that everything’s going to be okay, but George quickly lowers his gaze, and the four bandmates watch as George is escorted out of the Bambi Kino.

“Well I didn’t see that comin’,” John says, and he pats Paul’s shoulder before he heads back to their bedroom.

Paul’s just glad that John’s still here.

\--

The owners of the Bambi Kino turn the power off one night, and it irritates Paul to no end. That, and John and _Stuart_ are still on the Reeperbahn.

He sighs as he and Pete try and search through their stuff in the dark, and Paul throws his case down in a huff.

“I can’t fuckin’ find my comb,” Paul says, and Pete hums as he searches through his own case.

“Ya can borrow mine if ya want.”

Paul thanks him and they make their way down to the toilets, bumping into each other and the walls a few times as they stumble through the darkness.

The lights are out in the bathroom too, and Paul sighs deeply with frustration.

“I have a match,” Pete says, and it strikes Paul that if they light something they’ll be able to keep it like a candle. He pats at his pocket whilst Pete watches in confusion before he feels something and pulls it out.

“Is that…”

“A condom.”

Pete looks at him like he’s gone mad, but Paul only shrugs. John had stuffed a few in his pocket after telling him to try and get one of the hookers, but Paul didn't find the appeal. Why would he want some sleazy woman with smeared makeup and a loose pussy when he can have John. _His beautiful Johnny._

“It’s flammable innit?” Paul says, and Pete just laughs at him before he helps Paul hang it on a nail in the wall. They light it and the room brightens, and Pete slaps a hand on his back.

“Well, fuck me. I didn’t think that would work,” Pete says, and Paul laughs at him before he starts to comb his hair in the dirty mirror.

There’s a commotion outside the door, and Paul hurries over to try and put out the flame, but no matter how many times he blows on it, it just doesn’t go out. _More flammable than he thought_. Instead, they are faced with two large policemen, who shove them against the wall violently, cuffing their hands behind their backs.

“We’re putting you under arrest on suspicion of arson.”

Paul is pulled away from the wall quickly, and they are both escorted through the halls, where consequently the lights turn back on, which Paul knows must be because Koschmider knows they're here. When they get outside, there’s a police car waiting for them, but Paul’s attention quickly draws to John who’s sprinting across the road.

“What’s goin’ on?”

Paul opens his mouth to answer, but the policeman shoves him into the back of the car and says “arrested on suspicion of arson. They’ll be deported tomorrow morning.”

John looked at him, his face bewildered as he watches Paul being driven away, and Paul curses himself for acting so stupid when he knows they’re been watched.

He just hopes that John will meet him at home soon.

\--

After spending the night in a holding cell and flown back home on a small, cramped plane, he arrives home to his house an utter wreck. Paul initially thinks there must have been some sort of storm, for his house looks like it’s been half-demolished from the inside, though he knows there’s only one thing that could’ve caused such detriment.

The front door isn’t locked, and he pushes it open cautiously. It’s dark, and there’s a pungent smell drifting from somewhere, and Paul dreads to think what’s making it. He closes the door quietly, almost afraid that any slight noise could awaken his father, who he knows is somewhere in the house.

He sets his bags and guitar at the bottom of the stairs, before moving about the rooms. He goes to the kitchen first, giving himself some time to gather some strength, and he finds the source of the distinct, sickening smell. There’s a plate of, what Paul thinks is, rotten toast, and he wonders if this is what happens when he leaves home with no one to care for his father.

 _He can care for himself_.

He shakes off the thought with a shiver because he knows his father can look after himself, its just a case of whether he _wants_ to.

He throws the whole plate in the bin, knowing that he’ll never be able to get it clean enough before he sets to work on the rising pile of dishes next to the sink. It takes a while, and the soap is starting to burn at his fingers, but he continues to scrub at the plates and cups until they’re clean. 

When he’s satisfied with it all, he goes back down the hall to collect his things before he takes them upstairs. There’s a hole in the wall outside his room, and one of the hinges has snapped on his door. He stands for a while and picks at the plaster, watching it fall to the floor with every scrape of his fingernail. He knows this is a warning, or somewhat of a blessing for he wasn’t there to witness it, and knows that his father resents him for leaving. He partially blames himself, because he knows without him Mike would’ve moved in with another family, or more than likely to Mrs Harrison’s, years ago and his dad would’ve been alone, and so to actually make off, and not leave Mike at home must have knocked him further into an alcoholic daze.

Paul pries his door open, though it sinks to the side unsupported, and drags his stuff in, dumping it by the window and propping the guitar against the wall. He sighs, and slumps down onto the bed, running a hand through his hair. He knew this was what he was coming back to, but it doesn’t make it any less hard.

He takes a minute, contemplating how to go about it, before sighing a deep breath and pushing off the bed and moving towards the door. He notices the bucket at the end of his bed is full and reminds himself to throw the water away later.

He walks down the stairs, careful of the mould-eaten bannister that sways under his weight, and moves into the living room silently. As thought, his father is passed out in his usual place, though the curtains are drawn and there are no lamps on, suggesting he preferred the dark than the unwelcome, prying light that noses itself into unforgiving places. Paul can’t say he blames him.

He begins tidying up, picking up the empty bottles and the full ashtray to deposit in the bin, before sweeping away the pieces of glass that are hard to see in the dim lighting, though Paul thinks he does a good job of it. He just has to make sure no one walks in there barefoot in fear of shards slicing through skin.

He stands up the pictures that have been scattered around and finds the one of him and his brother crumpled on the floor, as though fisted in a fit of anger. He unfolds it gently in case it tears, and looks back at his own chubby face, sitting side by side with his brother on the grass of one of the fields along the Merseyside. They’ve got brilliant smiles smacked on their faces, and Paul can faintly remember that day for he ran around the field on his own for a while after the picture was taken, only to find his family had gone home, and he had to walk back, the lonely trail of childhood tears marking his face.

Paul smooths the edges of the picture before folding it neatly and putting it in his jacket pocket, away from prying hands and deathly looks. His father grumbles quietly, but Paul doesn’t stop his work. Once it looks relatively clean, he puts aside the small brush he had been using, and can feel his father’s eyes drill into the back of his head. He can’t look at him yet. So he goes into the kitchen to find some food. There’s a piece of stale bread and some milk, so he puts the bread in the toaster and places the kettle on the stove. He makes a cup of coffee quietly, and places the freshly toasted bread onto a plate he’d cleaned earlier. There’s no butter so he keeps the bread dry, and carries the cup and plate back into the living room, placing them on the small table next to his father.

His father frowns at him, giving a nod slightly, and Paul can practically hear John chastising him ‘ _he’s yer father and he treats ya like a goddamn slave_.’ They’d fought over it when he and Mike had gone back to live with his father after he’d got out on bail. The argument wasn’t pretty, and Paul felt like he had to defend his father, though it seemed as John just didn’t understand. It was one of the reasons why John had so eagerly dragged him to Hamburg, simply to show him that Jim McCartney can live without him.

Though, now it seems as if John was wrong.

Paul waits, watching silently as his father sips at the coffee, grimacing with a low ‘ _no sugar_ ’ before saying “I’m goin’ to pick up Mike.”

He doesn’t wait for an answer, and instead pulls his jacket closer and heads out into the cold night, whispers of his mother muttered from numb lips chasing after him.

Mike follows him home, though unwillingly, after making it very clear to Paul that he’d rather stay at the Harrison’s house. ‘ _They love me Paul_ ’ he had said, and Paul thinks that maybe his own love for his brother hasn’t been clear enough. That maybe dragging him back home isn’t the answer. But he _can’t_ do this by himself. It’s selfish and biased and he knows, god he _knows_ , that the best place for Mike isn’t at home. But he still makes him follow, the authority of being the older brother in his favour, and Mike says little to protest because he knows he can’t win. His father is asleep when they get back, and Mike is quick to shut himself in his room. Paul doesn’t quite know what to do with himself. Doesn’t know what the hell to do now that John’s still in Hamburg and his brother has himself guarded in his bedroom and his father is out for the count.

The phone rings and he’s thankful that he can do that. _Yes_ , he can answer the phone because then it will make him think about something else. Maybe it’s John checking up on him. Or maybe it Louise asking how Mike’s settled in back at home.

He lifts the phone off the hook, resting his back against the wall, and answers.

“Hello?”

"Paul? Oh my god, I was so worried. You’ve not called.”

 _Dot_. Well, he should’ve known she would call at some point after leaving her for Hamburg with little contact.

“ ’M sorry love. I’m home now though. Are ya okay?”

She goes quiet, and he thinks he must have upset her in some way, for it’s uncharacteristic for her to dwindle into a silent being when she’s always the one with too much to say and not enough ears to listen.

“Paul I need to tell ya something.”

 _Well_ , that hits Paul with a belt of unease, and he curls the telephone wire around his fingers apprehensively. “What is it, Dot?”

“I’m pregnant.”

His breath catches in his throat and he almost drops the phone. He bites at his lip, drawing blood, though the pain doesn’t register. His head moves backwards to rest against the wall, and he pinches his nose tightly.

“Paul?”

“How far along are ya?” His voice is meek, but he doesn’t have any power or support to give to her when it feels like he’s been hit with a fuck-ton of bricks.

“Jus’ over two months. I’m sorry to tell ya like this Paul.”

Her voice is thick with emotion, and he can imagine her twirling her hair nervously as she looks ahead with uncertain eyes, and Paul wishes he could give her more. Just be able to give her all of him and not feel the need to resist, unable to confide in a woman who he does not love.

“S’okay Dot. I’ll come round and see ya tomorrow, yeah?”

He hears her sniff, and he clutches the phone tighter.

“Thank you, Paul.”

She hangs up, and he puts the receiver back on the wall before slumping over slightly, planting his face in his hands. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. This isn’t what he wanted. Yet, it seems as if he doesn’t have a choice.

He moves to the bathroom quietly, his feet dragging along the carpet, the sound echoing through the nauseatingly quiet house. He locks the door and sits on the toilet seat lid, knocking his ankle against the sink and wordlessly stroking his hand through his hair. He wishes John was there. He misses him dearly, and knows John would be ready to pick him back up, piece together as much as he can, and seal it off with promises as good as masking tape. He’s not always sure they’re promises John can keep, and he wonders if there’ll be a day when the tape will be ripped off, revealing how shattered he is from the inside out, and there’ll be nothing there to hold him together.

He runs a hand across his face and drops his head down to look at the tiles underneath him, resting his elbows on his knees. He squints slightly, and a tinge of red catches his eye. There’s a foreign rufescent mark between the ridges of the bathroom tiles, and it comes to his attention quite vividly what it is. He feels ashamed for not noticing sooner, the blood of a despondent teen staining the floor after years of twisted agony. It also comes with something akin to bitterness when he realises no one else has noticed it either, or if they have they haven’t cleaned it or asked.

When Mike asks the next morning why his hands are red and he smells like bleach, he doesn’t answer.

\--

He can hardly hold in his smile when John comes home. He’s spent two isolated weeks, prellies as good as company, with just frequent phone calls from John and a few visits from George, who’s mother even tagged along at one point to offer the family a basket of food, which Paul appreciates greatly after spending most of the money he earned in Hamburg trying to scrounge some food from the sympathetic shop owners by the chippy on the Mersey.

Paul knows that John’s home by now, and he’d only waited as to let Mimi scold John for not calling her, and so leaves his house unspoken, his pace picking up as soon as John’s house is in sight. He knocks the door and is pulled in immediately before the door is closed and he’s engulfed into a hug. He holds John tightly, totally giddy with excitement after not seeing him in weeks. John pulls back with a laugh, patting him softly on the shoulder before dragging him upstairs, uncaring of Mimi’s shouts of ‘ _be down in time for dinner John_.’

“Where’s Stu?”

“In Hamburg,” John says as he ever so gracefully spreads himself on his bed, leaving no room for Paul to sit.

“What’s he still doin’ there?” Paul asks, hitting John’s leg lightly, to which John moves so Paul can sit down.

“Got a girlfriend didn’t he.”

Paul hums and accepts a ciggy when John offers, leaning over to light it off of the end of John’s before sitting back up. He bobs his knee up and down, a jittery motion that causes John to frown at him and blow the smoke through his nose.

“You alright?”

Paul breaths out the smoke and turns his head to face John, his face crumpled in confusion.

“ ’M fine. Why do ya ask?”

John sucks on the end of his cigarette, eyeing Paul warily, before saying “Yer jus’ acting a bit funny. Like you’ve got an ant in yer knickers.”

Paul shakes his head, adamant that he’s fine, and John lets it go on the grounds of ‘ _Paul’s in one of his moods and won’t talk_ ’.

“Is he stayin’ in the band?”

John shrugs at him.

“Dot’s pregnant.”

John chokes and splutters around his ciggy, coughing out the smoke, and props himself up on his elbows to look at Paul, who’s sat looking at him wide-eyed, almost apprehensively.

“How the hell did that ‘appen?”

Paul stubs out his cigarette in the ashtray on the floor and shrugs.

“Condom broke didn’t it.”

John sits up and follows Paul’s actions before sighing dramatically, causing a slight wince from Paul.

“Thought you were smarter than that.”

Paul falters, eyeing John with a squint.

“It weren’t my fault. S’not like I did it on purpose.”

“Yeah, but what can ya do. Looks like yer gonna ‘ave to leave me then to look after her tarty arse.”

Paul seethes and pushes himself off the bed, away from John, both hands running through his hair in frustration.

“I didn’t ask for this, dickhead. Ya think I want this?”

“Oh boo hoo Paul. Don’t play the victim in this. It’s not you who’s gonna be shoved to the gutter.”

John’s standing as well but Paul can’t look at him. A moment of hesitation, the sound of their breathing ricocheting off the walls like a gun, and pull turns his back to John and blinks.

“I wouldn’t do that to ya, Johnny.”

 _He wouldn’t_.

John laughs, though it’s wet and holds some sort of resentment that sets Paul further on the edge.

“Sure Paul. Do whatever the fuck ya want.”

Paul whips around to face John, and the older boy is red-faced and eager for a fight, pulling up all his defences and shielding himself, something he’s never done to Paul. Not completely. The bitter, acid words are usually aimed at the defenceless, the ones that wouldn’t stand a chance against the slash of John’s sharpened tongue. But Paul isn’t defenceless.

Paul knows that. Hell, even John knows that. Which is precisely why John stays silent.

Paul takes it as his cue, and leaves without a word, unshed tears biting behind his eyes as he trails his way home.

\--

It only takes a day.

The phone rings and Paul stumbles down the stairs to the phone, the remnants of preludin icing the top of his tongue, and he answers with a lazy ‘hello’, expecting anyone other than John to be on the other end.

“We need to talk.”

Right, so it is John. Paul’s chest flutters slightly with anxiety and his fists clench and unclench in an effort to relax himself.

“Okay.”

“Come ‘round as soon as ya can”

There’s no room for argument, not that Paul would, and John hangs up abruptly before anything else can be said. It’s obvious that he doesn’t want Paul to object, but he doesn’t want to hear him accept either. John is tricky in that way, and Paul finds it intriguing to have a partner that feels so intricately, but at the same time, so _deeply_. Paul thinks that’s half of John’s problem. He can’t handle that Paul could reject him, so therefore did it for him, consequently breaking his own heart before Paul could even fully fix it back together from the last time it had cracked. He knows, deep down, that John didn’t mean what he said. And Paul himself didn’t mean all the words he’d used. And, ultimately, he misses him.

_Don’t let another day go by, my love. It’ll just be like starting over, starting over._

Mike’s out, and he can already hear the clink of a bottle against glass from the living room, so Paul slips out quietly, his high slipping away with every step.

John is waiting for him outside his house, and they walk off in silence, ending up just where Paul knew John would take him. Strawberry fields.

They take their usual spot, sitting side by side under the shade of the tree that’s turned a golden amber in the autumn season, and Paul watches as John shuts his eyes and breathes out his nose.

_Living is easy with eyes closed._

“You’ll make a great father Macca.”

There’s an apology laced in his words, and Paul bites as his lip in means to distract himself from the way John is wavering slightly in his carefully-built sturdy persona.

John opens his eyes after a while, Paul still not saying anything, and looks at him with uncertainty.

“Thank ya, Johnny.”

And like that, their relationship is claimed back into the depths of romance, and Paul happily obliges when John leans over to peck at his mouth.

\--

There’s too much pain to even become pleasurable, and he’s not reassured by John’s whispered thoughts against the shell of his ear.

“ _I don’t know what I’m doin’ Paul_ ”

Paul looks up at him, watches as John’s hair lands over his face as he rocks forward again with his wide eyes reading Paul’s face, looking for a sign that he should stop, and Paul whimpers slightly as the pain starts to lessen and then finally, _finally_ , John twists his hips upwards and hits something that causes Paul to gasp, his mouth shaping into an o as his head rolls back.

“Oh fuck Johnny. Do that again.”

And so John does.

\--

“Stu’s rang.”

Paul looks up from his guitar. “Right?”

“He’s quit.”

Paul hears Pete’s sticks settle on top of the bass drum, and George’s fingers stop plucking at the strings.

“What do ya mean quit?” Paul asks, watching as John weaves a hand through his hair and sinks down onto the stool by his guitar.

“He’s stayin’ in Hamburg with Astrid. Something about a cold, the miserable git.”

When all eyes are staring at John blankly, the older man grabs his guitar and spits, “Look he’s gone okay. It just means one of us has to replace him to play bass. And it ain’t me.”

Paul turns to George, simultaneously with John, but George just tuts and says “Don’t even fuckin’ look at me.”

“Looks like it’s gonna be you then, Macca.”

Paul, ultimately, doesn’t mind too much, but he’s miffed about it nevertheless. It’s decided, and John leaves the room, only to return with a Höfner bass.

“Gear up then, son.”

“Where the hell did ya get that?”

John laughs, and Paul accepts the bass, the slender body sliding differently against his hands.

“Stu sent it. Didn’t need it anymore did he.”

Paul pucks at the bass lightly, tuning it back up, and plugs it into the amplifier.

“Let’s ‘ave a go then.”

By the end of the session, Paul has adorned the title of ‘ _better bassist than Stu_ ’, and practically beams at the sound they make, just the four of them. The lack of preludin in his system dies down by the time they’ve packed everything up, and Paul feels like he can just sleep for a day.

“You alright mate?”

Paul’s shaken back to life by a hand on his shoulder. Realising the hand belongs to George, he tilts his head at him with feigned perplexity.

“ ’M fine. Jus’ long day y’know.”

He still hasn’t told them he smuggled back two bags of prellies in his pockets.

\--

At their next gig, they adorn their new band name ‘The Beatles’. John had gotten sick of the old one, and had the impressionable idea of combining ‘beat’ with ‘beetles’, and Paul doesn’t think it’s half bad.

He prefers it actually because it sounds formal, the sort of name that can be passed around easily, which is why he guesses there are more people at this gig than there was before.

_Yes, we’re doing alright._

\--

“Happy birthday John.”

Paul hands him a present, the square shape wrapped somewhat neatly in newspaper, and John accepts it gratefully with a kiss to Paul’s cheek.

John unwraps it, the face of Elvis grinning back at him, and John inhales deeply in surprise. Paul doesn’t know if he’s surprised he got him such a new record or surprised he was able to afford it.

John sets the record to the side in favour of pulling Paul in for a deep kiss, not giving Paul a chance to even breathe before their lips are pressed together in an almost heated, and dare he say it, sensual way.

“Well fuck me. We ‘aven’t kissed like that since Hamburg,” Paul breathes, and John chuckles lowly, patting his cheek before moving to set his new vinyl on his mother’s record player, the only reason why Mimi would let him have it in the house.

John moves back to sit with Paul, before slipping an envelope from under his pillow and handing it to Paul.

“Me auntie from up north sent me down £100 a few days ago so I bought this.”

Paul opens the envelope and fishes out a smaller piece of paper, though he quickly realises it’s a ticket.

 _A train ticket to Paris_.

“We go on Friday so pack yer things. We’ll take the train to France and then we can hitch-hike to Spain. Heard it’s meant to be nice there.”

Paul doesn’t quite know what to say, the thick paper clutched tightly between his fingers.

“You didn’t have to do this Johnny.”

John just smiles at him and squeezes his leg lightly.

“Be ready by eight on Friday an’ I’ll come an’ pick ya up.”

Paul can’t wait.

\--

He’s stupid.

The fear grips at his throat like a cold pair of hands as he watches his dad stand by the fire, the treasured envelope clutched in a pathetic grip.

“What the hell is this?”

Paul doesn’t answer straight away; doesn’t want to misstep and cause an argument. Even though, rationally thinking, he knows it’s going to end up that way anyway.

“S’just a present.”

He watches a shaky hand seize the contents inside the envelope, filthy fingers uncoordinated around the thick paper as his father brings it up to eye-level, eyes moving over it swiftly.

Paul knows he should’ve hidden it, kept it away from unwanted hands.

“Yer leavin’? Again?”

His voice is raised in unwavering anger, and Paul doesn’t dare take a step closer.

“I’m jus’ goin’ for a week then I’ll be back as early as ya want.”

It doesn’t seem to justify it, and he watches as his father’s eyes darken, and he tuts sharply before he throws the envelope on the floor, the ticket still in his hands.

Paul watches as he glides the paper against his fingers, folding the edges slightly.

“Ya can’t leave us again, Paul.”

And with that, the ticket is tossed into the fire.

Paul goes for him, wretchedly trying to get past his father to get the ticket, the flames licking at it from afar, but with a slap to the face, he’s propelled to the floor.

He winces and a sharp gasp escapes his lips when the force of someone kneeling next to him knocks him, and he desperately tries to get away put a punch to his cheek sends his head crashing against the corner table, and he lies dazed as every strike sends him drowning in a wave of agony, but he won’t fight back.

He’s pulled up by the collar of his shirt, breathing heavily as his face is brought closer to that of his father.

“Yer not leavin’ us Paul. Not again. Ya hear me.”

It’s hissed in Paul’s face, and the smell of his breath is what hits Paul harder than any of the punches.

He doesn’t smell like alcohol.

His collar is let go and his back hits the floor, winding him slightly and sending him into a coughing fit as his father stands up and jabs him in the side with his boot.

“Ya hear me, James? Don’t leave.”

He waits for the footsteps to leave before he miserably crawls over to the fire, fingers against flame, as he tries to salvage as much as he can, only for his hands to come up empty. The fire blisters at his fingers, but he only lets out a small whimper, and slumps against the chair next to him with a heavy breath.

His face throbs and his fingers sting and he can feel blood drip into his lap, yet his main thoughts go to John. He doesn’t want him to know what’s happened.

But he has no choice. He’s going to have to tell John he can’t go.

 _Ya can’t leave us again, Paul_.

Without the ticket, he wouldn’t be able to go anyway. The world breaks inwards, and he chokes quietly on a sob. The only thing to do is patch himself up, hide as much of it as he can, and slip away in the night and tell John.

He’ll just have to make sure his dad is asleep. He leaves out two bottles of vodka in the kitchen as a tempting offer.

\--

He throws the bloody tissues in the toilet, and cleans the cuts across his face thoroughly, wincing as the water stings against his cheeks.

The bruises are starting to turn a deep, blotchy purple, and his eye and jaw are swollen. He’s wrapped his fingers in bandages, the task proving difficult when all his fingers are red raw.

He takes another swig of the whiskey he found behind the toilet and leaves the bathroom, zipping up his jacket, and slinks out of the house quietly.

He’s hit John’s window with a few pebbles, not realising John’s seen him until the front door opens and he pulled inside and straight upstairs. The lights aren’t on, so Paul concludes Mimi must be asleep, but it doesn’t seem that John cares for he stomps up the stairs rather loudly, the smack of his bare feet against wood echoing against the walls, whilst never letting go of his tight grip on Paul’s wrist.

As soon as their in John’s room, John pushes him down onto the bed and looks at him for a second. Paul guesses he’s contemplating what to do, and soon the scrape of a chair is heard as John pulls across the chair from his desk to sit in front of Paul.

Before John can do or say anything, Paul blurts “I can’t go to Spain with ya.”

John looks at him like he’s gone crazy.

“What’s goin’ on Paul. Who’s done this to ya?”

Paul averts his eyes, not liking the fact that John is directly in his line of vision, and stutters out a breath.

“I can’t go. I ‘aven’t got a ticket.”

Paul can tell John is frowning at him, even without looking. He feels like an idiot, sitting there with his face black and blue and he can’t come up with a good enough excuse to save his life. 

“Paul, who hell has done this to ya?”

Paul doesn’t answer and scrunches his eyes closed when John abruptly stands up and kicks at his chair. After a second, he opens his eyes to see John standing with his back to him, his hands in his hair, chest heaving with silent anger.

 _He knows_.

John turns to look at Paul, and his expression is almost broken. After a second, he calmly, or rather more rationally, sits back in the chair, placing one hand on Paul’s knee, and the other lightly across his jaw. Paul recoils slightly at the touch, but John is gentle and glides his fingers across his bruises with delicacy.

“Has he done this before?”

Paul thinks back to the few times he’d been slapped, and guesses they don’t count, so promptly shakes his head.  
Both of John’s hand settle on his knees, fingers bending slightly in repressed hostility, and his expression turns dangerous, so quick in fact, that Paul’s not quite sure when the shift occurred.

“ ’M gonna kill ‘im.”

John goes to stand, storm out the house and give Jim McCartney what’s coming to him, but Paul grabs his hands, ignoring the searing pain from his bandaged fingers, and John snaps his head to look at him.

“Don’t. Please.”

“You can’t justify this Paul. He can’t do this to ya.”

John shakes away Paul’s grip but doesn’t move from his place, still standing over Paul, though Paul is quick to stand to his height.

“Listen jus’ leave it okay? I can’t be dealing with ya gettin’ into a scrap over me.”

John grabs the front of his jacket, pulling their bodies flush, but the anger starts to dissipate when he realises that Paul _really_ doesn’t want him to get involved. They pant, their breaths mingling in the small space between their faces, and John pulls him into a hug before anything else can be said.

Paul hugs him back, burying his face into John’s neck, guarding himself against the outside world. He didn’t want it to get to this point.

“Stay here for tonight yeah? So I know yer okay.”

It’s mumbled against his neck, and Paul nods, feeling a hand rub near the bottom of his spine.

John pulls away, the hand still resting on Paul’s back, and says “I’ve got something for ya anyway.”

Paul frowns and watches as John rummages in his desk before pulling out another envelope, only this time taking out two tickets.

“I’d bought another one for Cyn but I’d rather go with you.”

Paul doesn’t quite know how to process the information and stands still for a second too long which causes John to falter slightly, his smiles dropping a little.

“You sure?”

“ ’Course I’m sure.”

Paul pulls him back into a hug, kissing at the corner of his mouth with a laugh, not quite believing what’s just occurred. He thought this was it. John would go without him. Though now it seems that with a fortunate stroke of serendipity, John’s built his world back up, and in doing so has helped him think that he’s still got good things coming, even after such a bad night.

“Fuck ya dad. We go on Friday.”

\--

John is waiting for him in the early hours of the Friday morning, and Paul is quick to shoulder his bag and pad out of the house, the bruises on his face still evident, and he can see it causes John to grimace unconsciously at the sight.

After still not being on the greatest terms with Mike, Paul was still able to convince him to stay somewhere else for the week. Not that he’s at home most of the time anyway. It gives him some comfort, knowing Mike won’t be around his father, and he dearly hopes his father won’t know he’s gone until he’s already on the train.

John smiles at him, and they walk down the road before anything can be said, in fear that Jim McCartney could ruin it for the both of them. There are no buses running at this hour, so the trek to the train station takes a while, but still being half asleep, the both of them are able to bimble their way over there with still enough time to get some breakfast.

There’s a quaint little place on the corner, a few steps from the station, and they manage to get themselves a bacon batch each, which John promptly pays for.

“Y’know I could’ve paid for me own,” Paul says, as they sit at the small table by the window.

“Look, I’ve got enough money to last us _both_ the week, or even longer. I don’t want ya payin’ for anythin’ Macca.”

Paul wants to bite back a reply that he can pay, but John’s already bitten down on his sandwich, moaning obscenely as he says ‘ _this is so good_ ’ around a mouthful of bread. Paul rolls his eyes at him, hitting him with his foot under the table to get him to shut up, though it only causes John’s eyebrows to shoot up as a grin spreads across his face.

“Cheeky bastard,” Paul says, and John laughs at him.

The woman at the shop kindly offers them a can of coke each for their journey after John tells her just how delicious his meal was, and they head to the station in time to catch their train. They’re crammed into middle class, though are able to get a seat next to each other, and they get their ticket stamped before the train leaves.

“What do ya think it will be like?”

“Paris or Spain?”

“Well, Paris. We’re goin’ there first aren’t we,” Paul says, opening his can of coke.

“Well I’m guessin’ it will be like London, but everyone will be speaking French instead.”

Paul’s never been to London, but he’s seen it on George’s tv, the one year he went over there for Christmas with Mike. They didn’t stay for long, only to eat some of their leftover dinner and watch the Queen’s speech on the tv the Harrison’s shared with their neighbours. The two families, plus Paul and Mike, were all cramped around the screen, and Paul was able to make out the high-risers and the ever-elegant Buckingham Palace the teachers had told him about at school.

He guesses if Paris looks like that, their trip will be grand.

After dozing on and off for a few hours, they arrive in France, and Paul looks out the window, excitement thrilling his veins. John taps him on the shoulder to let him know that this is their stop, and they grab their bags from underneath their legs and make their way onto the platform, the bustling crowd awaiting them.

They hurry off out of the station, aware that they could lose each other amongst the masses of people, and continue walking until they reach the road outside.

John pulls out two bowler hats from his bag, handing one to Paul, before they stick their thumbs out in hopes of a lift. They’d learnt from last time that no one is going to give them a lift unless they have a gimmick. After watching other guys get lifts from wearing things like a union jack flag wrapped around them, they decided bowler hats would do the trick. Give the driver a sense of humour and they’d be sure to get a lift.

It seems it works because a short while after, a truck driver lets them hop in, and they drive up to Paris, the light from the sun growing colder as night begins to draw in.

By the time they find someplace to stay, Paul feels half-dead with the end of his fingers turned a dark blue which he’s sure isn’t supposed to happen, and John doesn’t look much better, so they don’t even bat an eyelid when the owner tells them the room has only one bed. John books them in for the night, and they lug their bags up the two flights of stairs, collapsing on the bed with heavy sighs. The room has heating, _thank god_ , and Paul hopes that the feeling will return to his toes soon. He shivers and takes his shoes and coat off, before getting into bed fully clothed, and he quivers slightly under the duvet. John is quick to join him, and they curl around each other, legs tangling and faces nearly pressed together. John takes Paul’s hands between his own in a vain attempt to warm them up, keeping away from the end of his fingers that are still sore, and Paul smiles at him gratefully.

“Yer too cold.”

“ ’M fine.”

John keeps rubbing his hands, desperately trying to get some more blood running through his fingers, and Paul only sighs softly.

“I need ya to tell me if this is too much. I don’t want ya keelin’ over on me when we’re half-way to Spain.”

John has that look in his eyes, one Paul knows too well.

_You better tell the truth or I’ll have your head._

Paul contemplates for a minute, feeling John’s legs persistently pull him closer by the ankles until Paul shifts so their chests are touching, as well as their noses.

“Maybe it’s better if we stay in Paris.”

John kisses him chastely and smiles against his lips.

“I think it’s nice ‘ere anyway.”

\--

“What the fuck are they?”

It’s whispered in his ear, and Paul turns to see what John’s on about. There are about three or four people walking down the road wearing short leather jackets and very wide pantaloons. They look about fifty inches wide, and in comparison to their sixteen-inch-wide legged drainies, it was like looking at something out of one of them high-end fashion magazines that Mimi keeps in the living room. Intrigued, Paul jogs over to the small crowd, leaving a confused John to trail after him.

“Excusez-moi, Monsieur, où did you get them?” he says, hoping the little French he knows is enough for them to understand him. One man smiles, and hands him a slip of paper with an address on, saying something which he guesses means that he can find them there.

“Merci.”

He watches them walk away before he turns, waving the paper in John’s face enthusiastically, ignoring John’s less than impressed look.

“Let’s go an’ get a pair.”

John just chuckles and says, “I didn’t know ya knew some French.”

“Did a bit at school.”

“Thought ya did German?”

“I did,” Paul says, and John laughs again, patting him lightly on the shoulder.

“I swear, yer full of mysteries.”

They’re at Montmartre, and Liverpool looks pale in comparison. The buildings are tall and feature character only seen in some of the houses by the docks back at the Merseyside, and the people are fashionable and elegant without a Teddy boy insight. They climb the hill higher until they come across the small shop, filled without knick-knacks and other cheap crap, but their eyes catch the clothing aisle, or more so of a hanging rail, in the far corner. There are lots of styles to choose from, and John pulls out a blouse that reads ‘ _mens’_ but looks more like something Dot or Cynthia would wear on a night out, and Paul muffles his giggles into his palm as not to cause disruption in the hushed shop when John holds it against himself and bats his eyelids like a girl. They finally get their hands on a pair of the ‘voguish’ jeans, and finding their size, they stumble over to the counter in a failed attempt to conceal their laughter and eagerness. The trousers don’t cost them much, and after exchanges pleasantries in their fake Parisian accents with the woman behind the counter, they walk back to their hotel room giddily to put them on.

“What do ya think?” Paul asks, adorning the new trousers, and John nods.

“Very suave, son. What ‘bout me?”

“Very suave.”

They head out, the trousers pooling around their ankles, but they only make it about halfway down the street.

“I don’t like these.”

“Do yer feet feel like they’re flapping?”

They decide almost immediately that they feel more comfortable in their drainies, and hurry back to the hotel to change back into their trousers.

“Well that was stupid,” John grumbles, and Paul laughs at him, only to get John’s discarded trousers lobbed at his face.

\--

After spending the night in the pub, they head back to their hotel, less tired than the night before, with a camera full of photos that they took of each other to prove to the others when they get home that they were ‘artsy’ and Paul’s sure the photos will be great because they both hammed it up to try and show how much of a good time they’re having. They undress until their down to their y-fronts, and slide into bed next to each other, the street lamp outside being the only source of light. Their quiet for a minute, and then Paul feels a hand on his thigh. He frowns, but the hand only travels upwards until it’s skimming the waistband of his pants, and he turns his head to look at John, who’s got somewhat of a seductive look on his face. Paul wants to laugh, but John kisses him before he can do anything, their lips pressed firmly in an uncoordinated dance of pleasure, and John’s hand moves to cup him through his underwear. This kiss is broken as Paul gasps, and John smiles at him.

Paul looks at John for a minute, taking in the beauty of him and ghosts his lips against John’s.

“Fais moi l'amour.”

John shifts, his breath warm against Paul’s lips and says “Oui.”

Paul titters and John rolls on top of him, kissing him lovingly, and places his hands on Paul’s hips.

It’s soft and slow, John taking his time with Paul, and Paul doesn’t want it to ever stop. They rock together needily, panting through small moans and stolen kisses, and Paul can’t get enough.

_And when you fall in love, dear boy, it won’t be half as good as this_.

\--

“Y’know we haven’t told George and Pete.”

“Told them what?” John asks, cigarette lazily dangling from his lips as he stares at the ceiling, and Paul’s sure that if he doesn’t move it soon, it’s going to end up burning his chin.

“Where we’ve gone. We’ve got gigs booked this weekend and we’re not gonna be there.”

John guffaws, smoke emitting from his mouth as he puts the cigarette between his fingers. Paul plucks it off him quickly, placing it between his own lips, and John turns his head on the pillow to look at him.

“Fuck ‘em.”

Paul blows the smoke out of his mouth steadily, his eyebrows pulled down, and John shrugs at him.

“There’s nothing we can do about it now, Paul. I’m sure they won’t be too angry.”

Paul sighs anyway, and John takes the ciggy back off him.

“Yeah, I hope so.”

\--

They’re sat in a small cafe, and Paul is on his third banana milkshake, courtesy of John, who’s watching him over his own chocolate milkshake.

“Y’know ya didn’t ‘ave to buy me these,” Paul says, and John rolls his eyes, pulling away from his drink to wipe at his mouth with the back of his hand.

“I told ya, I don’t ‘ave to do anything. But I want to Macca. S’will ya just leave it?”

It’s Paul’s turn to roll his eyes, and he watches as John resumes drinking his milkshake. John looks up at him, before pulling away again only to lean over the table to jab at his shoulder.

“Stop worryin’ will ya? You’ll give yerself a bloody headache.”

Paul sighs, and goes back to his milkshake.

“How’s yer face?” John asks after a while, and Paul finishes his drink before replying, “S’fine. Still hurts a bit but it’s better.”

John squints at him, but it seems as if Paul’s pleading eyes to leave the subject alone is enough, for he nods and calls the waiter over, paying the bill.

  
When they leave the cafe it’s dark, and both of them are quick to zip up their jackets in an attempt to fend off the unwelcome icy air. There are very few street lamps, and their hands brush together as they walk along the street, back to their hotel. Paul doesn’t know if it’s excitement or the fact that he’s in a different country, but he pulls John into a side alley, pushing him against the wall.

John opens his mouth to ask what the hell he’s doing, but Paul is quick to shut him up with a feverish kiss.

When he regretfully pulls back, John quirks an eyebrow, and Paul is just about able to see his smirk in the dim lighting.

“Well, that was brave.”

Paul shrugs, and John puckers his lips in an attempt to persuade Paul to kiss him again, which Paul does willingly. The kiss is clumsy and hot, and Paul pushes his leg between John’s, eliciting a gasp from his mouth.

“Naughty,” John says against his lips, but Paul can only laugh, letting John grind down on him for a second, before kissing him one last time and pulling away.

John whines and Paul readjusts his jacket.

“Yer no fun,” John says, his face pinched into a pout.

“Yer a tosser,” Paul replies, smirking slightly as he turns to head back onto the street.

When they get back to their room, they can hear the band playing in the pub next door, and it seems as if they’re an Elvis tribute, as two renditions of Jailhouse Rock and Hound Dog play one after the other. John goes to the small desk in the corner to write a short letter to Cynthia, and Paul looks through his bag. He doesn’t tell John what he’s doing, and he takes out the small bag from underneath the folded clothes, and empties three of the small pills into his hand, dry swallowing them quickly before John can turn around to see what he’s doing. He quickly stuffs the rest of the pills back at the bottom of his bag, stuffing the clothes over it quickly before zipping it back up.

Guilt grips at him, clawing at the back of his throat with no mercy, and he swallows thickly, his eyes flicking back over to John who’s still got his back to him, writing to his lovely Cynthia. He thinks, very briefly, that he should write to Dot, see how the baby is. But it’s only a thought.

He breathes, just for a second, before moving into the bathroom. He splashes cold water on his face, steadying himself on the sink, and looks at himself in the mirror. The bruises have faded into yellows and greens, and the swelling has gone completely. The water drips from his nose, and he sniffs once before wetting his face again.

When he’s drying his face into the towel, a pair of arms wrap around his waist, and a few kisses are pressed to the side of his neck. Paul lets him, only pulling away from the towel so John has better access, until John spins him so they're facing each other.

“Can I ‘ave this dance monsieur?”

Paul can just about hear the song blaring through the walls, and recognises it as one of Elvis’ newest songs. He’s only heard it a few times when he was at George’s house as George had bought the single the day it came out. It’s a slow song, and Paul smiles at John gently.

“Why yes my good sir.”

John pushes him into the bedroom with a giggle, and Paul lets himself be lead around. They stop facing each other, and John slips his arms around Paul’s neck, and Paul takes that as his cue to wrap his arms around John’s waist.

They move slowly, eyes locked on each other before Paul breaks the stare to press his cheek against John’s. The music lulls him, and he closes his eyes, relishing in the moment. John starts to sing along softly, his words drifting through the air in a seamless melody. It seems that John knows the song better than Paul, and so Paul listens to his voice, holding him tighter.

“ _Take my hand. Take my whole life too.”_

John sings them with conviction, like he means it, and his hands move from behind Paul’s neck to cup at his jaw when Paul pulls back slightly to look at him. There’s adoration, warmth, and _love_ in his stare and the last words of the song become somewhat of a promise, as John sings them almost faintly.

 _“For I can't help falling in love with you._ ”

Paul kisses him, so chaste it almost as if their lips never met, but John lays his forehead against Paul’s shoulder, shielding himself, from what Paul’s not sure. He only holds him firmly, letting John relax against him until their swaying without the beat of the song to lead them.

“I do love you Johnny.”

John lifts his head, his eyes wet, and smiles.

“I love you too Macca.”

\--

It only takes another night before John breaks. Truthfully, Paul hadn’t seen it coming, though now that he thinks about it, John had been acting a little off.

It happens when they come back to the room early, and Paul slinks off to the shower before John can. He spends a while in there, cleaning the grime and sweat from his hair after walking around all day, and turns the shower off after he’s done, the room steamy. When he’s towelled off and redressed, he moves into the bedroom, only to find John standing by the window, watching the cars and the people go by outside silently.

“Johnny?”

John doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even turn around, and Paul puts the towel he was drying his hair with down. He watches John for a second, contemplating whether to approach him or let him come around in his own time, but it seems as though John makes up his mind for him.

“I can’t do this anymore.”

It spoken weakly, as though he’s afraid to say it, and Paul frowns.

“What?”

John turns to him now, and Paul doesn’t know if he prefers it when he had his back turned. His eyes are puffy and red around the edges, and it’s obvious he’s been biting at his lips because they're raw. Paul doesn’t quite know what’s happening.

“I can’t do _this_ anymore. Be with you I mean.”

Paul doesn’t _want_ to believe what’s happening.

“You don’t mean that,” Paul says, taking a step closer only for John to take a step back. Paul doesn’t want to corner him so he stays where he is, watching as John shakes slightly, his hands clenching into fists by his side.

“It’s too hard Paul. You…”

He stops, pressing the palms of his hands into his eyes, and Paul feels a little too broken to fix him. He doesn’t know what he’s done, but Paul feels his heart start to tear away from him like it wants to run away and hide with John. But Paul’s not ready for this to end. Not this way.

“I, what John? Talk to me.”

He takes a step forward slowly. Carefully. And he almost sighs in relief when John doesn’t cower away from him.

“Yer gonna leave me, Paul.”

Paul scrunches his face in confusion, watching as John wipes at his eyes.

“No, I won’t. Why the hell would I do that?”

“Because that’s what people do.”

There’s anger tainting his voice, and John violently rubs at his eyes before saying “yer gonna die, Paul. And we know it’s gonna be before me and I can’t live with that.”

The fight leaves him almost as quickly as it had come, and John’s arms fall to his side. “Maybe we should go home.”

_Maybe I’m afraid of the way I love you._

Paul doesn’t know what he’s doing until he’s got his hands fisted in the lapels of John’s jacket, the close proximity seeming to build on Paul’s anger. Or rather, his despair.

“Don’t you do this to me, Johnny. Don’t you leave me too.”

Paul grits his teeth, searching John’s eyes.

“I can’t live knowing there’ll be a day where ya won’t wake up. How am I supposed to live knowing ya could drop dead at any point.”

John’s accent is thick, the emotion becoming overwhelming, and Paul’s hands tighten and tears incessantly prick the corners of his eyes.

“It doesn’t work like that John and you know it. We’ll know. We’ll know when it’s time. But it doesn’t mean we have to split up because I could go at any point. I’ll help ya live without me but you’ve got to have me first Johnny.”

John doesn’t break Paul’s eye contact. There are tears falling from both boy’s cheeks, but neither seems to care.

“I can’t,” John says, whispered softly.

“You can,” Paul replies, and he lets go of John’s jacket to wipe at his eyes, turning away from the older boy.

“You can,” Paul repeats, whether it’s to John or himself he doesn’t know, and he hears John sniff and kick at the chair behind him.

\--

Paul wakes up to John curling around him tighter, almost squishing him, and the older man sniffs and buries his face into Paul’s shoulder.

“Johnny?”

He feels John sigh against him, and he turns his head to look over at him as John pulls back to meet his eyes. John just shrugs but his hold on Paul doesn’t loosen, and Paul rolls onto his other side so that he’s face to face with John. The room is dark, a small glimpse of light filtering through the curtains from the streetlamp outside making it slightly easier to make out John’s face. The look in his eyes is desolate, and he smiles as Paul touches his cheek gently, though the glint in his eyes reveal the pain he’s so desperately trying to hide.

“Couldn’t sleep,” John says, and Paul moves his hand upwards to lightly stroke his fingers across John’s cheekbone. They meet halfway in a kiss, John pressing against Paul needily. Nothing is spoken, no need for it, and Paul rolls over to straddle John, grinding his hips down making John gasp softly.

They take it slow, actions almost too sweet, and Paul sucks John’s lip into his own as he opens him up gently, hearing John moan faintly in the shadows of the dark room. Paul slips in steadily, _carefully_ , and John sighs against his mouth, his eyes falling closed. Paul presses into him, his fingers skating over the expanse of John’s chest almost delicately, afraid that if he’s too hard he’ll break under his fingertips. John rocks with him, the two of them synchronised, and John meets Paul’s gaze, locking their eyes together in a somewhat silent embrace. They finish together on clouds of fantasy and pleasure, and Paul only realises John’s crying when he lies back down next to him. John is quick to wrap himself around Paul, burying his face into his neck whilst pressing light kisses against his collarbone. Paul holds him, placing a light kiss to his head as a way of reassurance, and lets their legs tangle together.

_Still, we’re deep within each other’s hearts_.

\--

Paul wakes up, his eyelids stuck together slightly, and he pries his eyes open. He turns his head to see John still asleep, his eyelashes fluttering in the light shining from through the thin curtains. Paul yawns quietly before turning on his side so he’s facing John, eyes drooping drowsily.

 _Oh my lover, for the first time in my life my eyes can see_.

John is his own perfect universe. His soul mate. He gives his life a technicolour lustre, and Paul fears that one day he’ll chase him away far enough that he won’t come back, and his life with fall back into black and white.

It’s not even just his looks. Though John is handsome, and Paul grades him as out of his league, his mind is a different thing. Paul always wishes to be on the same level, get some insight into his head, but it seems as though John can defend his thoughts with utmost security that Paul can’t even crack sometimes. Though, he knew there was a connection between them straight away, like a spark becoming a flame. He remembers something he learnt in school: “ _Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind._ ” The words seem fitting, and he guesses they’re true, for at this moment just being near John is enough to send his heart swooping.

“Take a picture it’ll last longer.”

John’s eyes are still closed, and Paul flushes in embarrassment. John’s arms move to his waist, pulling them closer, and he opens his eyes to look at Paul.

“Hi.”

“Hey.”

They kiss gently, lips ghosting together silently, and John’s hands move to cup Paul’s bare arse.

“Cheeky.”

John laughs against his lips and Paul smiles.

“I love you, Johnny.”

John kisses him slowly before he pulls away to look at Paul’s face, an expression starkly different from the one he wore the night before, and it makes Paul happier to know that John's okay. For now. 

“I love you too Paul.”

 _In spite of all the danger_.

\--

By the time they get home, it’s dark and so Paul stays over at John’s house. They’re both asleep before their heads can hit the pillows, and Paul sleeps soundlessly next to John. He’s awoken at one point from being hit with a pillow, and he blinks his eyes open to see a disgruntled John looking back at him.

“Yer snorin’ again.”

He never knew he snored until he met John, and he only guesses he does it now because he’s relaxed enough to sleep properly. He finds it funny, the person he turns into when he's with John. It's a different Paul than the one at home, and he'd be glad to leave that version of himself in the depths of that house forever. _If only_.

They awake to a big breakfast from Mimi, which both boys are grateful for, and Paul watches as Mimi kisses the side of John’s head, telling him how glad she is that he’s okay after being away for so long.

“You too Paul,” she says, kindly patting him on the shoulder, and he’s so caught off guard that he can’t reply. He looks over at John who’s smiling at him, and Paul gives a hesitant smile back, but Mimi leaves the room before he can answer.

When he’s finished, he gets his things, sneaking a kiss to John behind Mimi’s back, before walking back home.

He passes George’s house, and by the time he’s nearly on the next street, he feels a tap on his shoulder and turns around to see George, his face pinched in anger.

“Where the fuck ‘ave ya been?”

Paul shrugs, but it does nothing to calm George down.

“Me an’ John went to Paris for his birthday.”

He turns and continues to walk without letting George answer, and he can hear the younger boy practically stomp after him.

“What, an’ ya couldn’t ‘ave told us? We had gigs booked, Paul.”

Paul stops walking and sighs, turning around to face George.

“What do ya want me to do? We fucked up okay.”

George’s face changes, and it’s clear that he’s taking Paul’s words as a well-disguised apology. He looks at Paul like he’s contemplating his next words before saying “So did ya ‘ave a good time?”

Paul smiles and lowers his head, blushing slightly, and scuffs his boot against the floor.

“Yeah, it was gear.”

George laughs and pats his arm before walking back to his house, leaving Paul red-faced alone on the street.

When Paul gets home he can hear the phone ringing, and he quickly opens the door and dumps his bag before answering, knowing full well that his dad won’t. He doesn’t even go and see if his da’s actually in the house, and decides to answer the call and keep away from the front room.

“Is this Paul McCartney?”

Paul clears his throat nervously and replies “Yeah. Who’s this?”

“I’m Mrs Rhone, Dot’s mother. I’ve got such awful news Paul.”

“What’s ‘appened?” He must sound impatient, for the woman takes a sharp intake of breath, before resuming.

“Dot’s had a miscarriage. I’m so sorry Paul.”

When the first emotion he has is relief, guilt hits him square in the chest shortly after, and he gasps quietly as his throat constricts and his eyes become wet. He doesn’t know whether he’s more upset from the loss of his child, or that fact that he feels _relieved_. There’s no obligation anymore, no pressure pressing on him and he can breathe. Yet, he feels so bad, _so ashamed_ , that he feels something that you get when something good happens from a bad situation. But surely this isn’t good. Poor Dot must be so broken, so alone, and what can he do?

He hangs the phone up before he can answer the woman, leaning against the wall, and contemplates going to the hospital to see her. It’s the right thing to do, he supposes, and he doesn’t want her to go through this alone.

He pushes himself off of the wall and walks straight back out of the house. He doesn’t pick up any money, so he walks, only to find himself outside John’s house ten minutes later. He’s not quite sure what he’s doing, or why he’s there, but he finds himself knocking on the door moments later. John answers the door, his face scrunched in confusion, but Paul’s too numb to say anything.

“Was just about to call ya,” John says, but it sounds faint, only just reaching his ears through the thick fog clouding his head. When Paul doesn’t answer, John is quick to usher him into the house and up the stairs and Paul lets him because he’s too caught up in his own head to know what to do. He’s pushed down onto the bed before anything can be said, and John sits next to him, a hand wrapping around his back. The touch is enough to break Paul, and he mewls, slumping against John’s hold and letting his head rest against his chest. Another hand comes around to hold the side of his head, holding him secure, and Paul sobs louder. He doesn’t know why he’s so upset, he didn’t want the baby anyway, but the grief clings to his heart in ways he fears will kill him.

“What’s happened then?”

“Dot’s miscarried.”

It’s whispered between faltered breaths, and he can feel John shift slightly.

“I thought ya didn’t want the baby?”

Paul lifts his head to look at him, his eyes stinging as the tears still fall.

“I didn’t. That’s the point. And it died Johnny. My baby died and I felt _relieved_. What kind of person does that?”

He pulls away from John slightly, wiping his nose with the back of his jacket sleeve, and he hears John sigh.

“Paul ya weren’t ready. S’not yer fault yer too young.”

Paul doesn’t really like that answer, doesn’t think it quite justifies him, but he nods anyway and falls into John’s awaiting arms. There’s a kiss to his head, and he takes in a shaky breath.

“What were ya gonna call me for anyway?”

He feels John stiffen, and he pulls back to watch him shrug whilst his eyes dart to the floor.

“Don’t matter. I feel like its not a good time to tell ya.”

Paul touches his hand softly and sniffs. “Jus’ tell me.”

“Seriously Paul I don’t think now’s the time.”

Paul doesn’t take no for an answer, and he squeezes John’s hand softly, reassuringly. “John.”

“Cyn’s pregnant.”

 _Maybe he shouldn’t have pushed for an answer_.

He feels like he’s been punched in the gut, and he flinches slightly, moving his hand away from John’s.

“No, I’m sorry Macca. I shouldn’t ‘ave told ya. I-”

"S’okay Johnny.”

John looks so deeply regretful, and Paul feels even more culpable than he did before, and he pulls John into a hug quickly before he can see the heartbroken look on his face.

\--

“What the fuck are ya doin’?”

Paul stills and his heart slams against his chest like it’s trying to make a quick escape, and he hesitantly looks up to see John stood in the doorway.

He was sure he’d locked the bathroom door. He was only going to take two because he only had a few left in his first bag and didn’t want to open the second one yet.

John is quick to snatch the pills from him, and Paul relents, knowing he doesn’t have a strong argument.

“We aren’t performing for another day, Paul. Why the hell are ya taking these now?”

When Paul doesn’t answer, John groans loudly and moves to squat in front of Paul so he’s in his eye-line, dangling the prellies in front of his face.

“How long ‘ave ya been takin’ these?”

Paul bites his lips unconsciously, and tries to think of anything better than the truth, but John snaps his fingers in front of his eyes to bring him out of his momentary daze.

“How long Paul?”

He sounds impatient.

“Since Hamburg.”

John stands back up to full height, throwing the bag against the wall in frustration, and Paul hears the pills scatter across the floor.

“This can’t be good for ya. Promise me you’ll stop.”

Paul nods repeatedly and only realises he’s crying when a few drops land in his lap.

“This is not okay Paul. Promise me. ”

Paul sniffs quietly but doesn’t answer and lets his face rest against John’s chest as John kisses the top of his head. Paul knows he’s still angry. And he doesn’t blame him. If he found out it was John that was taking them, he’d be furious too.

Though, the thought isn’t enough to stop him from scrounging on the floor on his hands and knees for the dropped pills when John leaves.

\--

His reflexes aren’t quick enough, and he watches the phone fall out of John’s hands, clattering to the floor. The sound echoes across the small room and Paul watches as John’s fists clench by his side, and his jaw is set in such a way that looks like it must hurt. Paul wants to go over there, pull him into a hug and help him through whatever he’s been told, but there’s a sense of hostility that Paul doesn’t want to provoke, so he stays seated on the edge of John’s bed, incessantly picking at his nails as he watches John warily.

John makes a wounded noise before his fist hits the wall with a loud thud, and Paul rises in his seat, unsure of what to do, when John starts to continuously strike the wall over and over. Paul is quick to move, standing behind John and pinning his hands by his sides, in what effectively becomes a sort of hug, and John struggles.

“Get the fuck off me, Paul.”

It’s shouted, or rather spat, but Paul doesn’t give up, doesn’t let go. John’s arms are desperately trying to break free from Paul’s hold, his chest heaving as he claws at Paul’s arms, and he continues to spew obscenities at him, though Paul knows he doesn’t mean it. Not really.

With one last failed attempt, John slumps back against Paul’s chest, the struggling stopped, though Paul knows the anger is still simmering under the surface, and he knows the wrong move can make him snap.

“Johnny?”

John whimpers quietly, and Paul allows him to turn in his hold so that John’s face is pressed to his chest.

“What’s happened?”

“Only gone an’ died ain’t he.”

“Who?”

John pulls away, wiping at his face, and moves to sit on the bed with Paul following him like a lost puppy.

“Stu. That cold he had weren’t a cold. Had a brain haemorrhage or somethin’ and now he’s dead.”

Paul shifts slightly and places his hand on John’s knee.

“I’m sorry.”

“No yer not.”

In reality, Paul is sorry, but he doesn’t argue and lets John push his hand away. There’s nothing he can do to show his behaviour towards Stuart was warranted because it wasn’t. It was just out of spite and jealousy. He knew at the time he'd done something pretty awful when he had to work so hard to justify it, yet it didn’t stop him. He looks over at John, whose eyes are on the floor, and Paul can’t understand why so many bad things have happened to John in the short time he’s known him. It’s like the world has given him a big ‘ _fuck_ _you’_ and Paul doesn’t know what John’s done to deserve it. If it was up to Paul, he would make sure nothing bad could ever happen to him. But unfortunately, it’s rare for things ever happen in your favour. And especially Paul’s.

Nothing further is said, but just as Paul decides it’s probably best if he leaves, John moves to rest his head on Paul’s shoulder, sniffing quietly. Paul’s momentarily bewildered, for he thought John was mad at him, but wraps an arm around his back nevertheless.

_It’s not right in one life. Too much rain._

When Paul gets home, the house is too dark and too quiet, but he doesn’t bother turning on a light as he ventures in on unsteady feet. He’s quick to find the kitchen sink where he retches, though not much comes up, and he rests his cheek against the cold metal of the draining board.

The guilt is like gasoline in his gut, and hearing of Stuart’s death has only set it alight. He can feel his insides die of the toxicity; can feel himself searing around the edges. He looks around in distress for something to extinguish it. Anything that would make it go away.

And his eyes land deliciously on the whiskey bottle by the window.

\--

“I can’t do this anymore.”

He can hear her sob into the phone, pleading at him not to let her go.

He hangs the phone up with the whisper of an apology lingering on deadened lips.

\--

He’s felt off from the moment he woke up. From the moment John gave him an incredulous look when he wretched in the toilet.

He’s not sure what’s wrong, and he plays it off as just being tired, and he goes along with his day thinking nothing of it. That is, until their gig at the Cavern. It’s the first time they’ve played there, and something familiar strikes him after leaving the stage.

When the realisation comes to him that it smells like home, it’s like a slap to the face, and he stumbles back slightly, bumping into people - _too many people_ \- and the smell wraps around him and it’s _too tight. No escape_. He feels eyes on him, blistering his skin with mirthless stares and he blinks in hopes they’ll go away, and he tilts his head in any and all directions and he can’t find _John_. Someone’s hand brushes against his back, and it causes his heart to nearly give up right there, and he’s afraid that maybe he’s too pale for this kind of place and will stand out like a stark image against black walls.

It’s so dark.

He breathes, just once, and he’s out before he can inhale again, he’s out before he can find John. It doesn’t dawn on him that he’s alone until the cold hits him, and he realises he gave his coat to John. John who’s still inside.

It’s too dark.

He stumbles forward slightly, watching as remnants of snow scuffle under his feet, and he has the urge to bury his face in it to wake him up because it’s all _too much_.

He gasps and teeters on his toes before he trips, his knees smacking the ground with a sickening crack, and yet he buries his fingers in the ice like it’s his liberator from the solitude he’s found himself in.

It seems it’s not, and he brings his fingers to his face, watching as his fingers blend with the darkening sky and he breathes.

It’s not enough.

He digs his fingers back into the snow, clawing at the ground until his hands come back bloody, nails deadened and hanging from his fingers, and the sight of the blood is enough to settle him, even if it’s just a little.

Just enough, because he smears the red between his fingers, the liquid warm against his wrists, and he laughs, startling and cold, because maybe he’s going crazy. But it proves that he’s warm inside, that he’s still alive.

He doesn’t know how long he sits there, but he’s trembling when John finds him, the ice picking at his skin in hopes the cold will freeze him.

He doesn’t realise John’s there until a coat is wrapped around him, but he’s too deprived of the ability to just _feel_ that he doesn’t react. A face hovers in his view, concerned and disquieted, and he lets himself be pulled up gently.

He realises his fingers have stopped bleeding, and he momentarily thinks they’ve frozen and dropped off. It's silly, he thinks.

 _A s_ _illy thought from a silly boy_. 

The sound of his mother’s voice mitigates his senses and he gags making John stop.

He leans forward, pushing his bloodied nails into his knees as he keens. There’s a hand between his shoulders and breath against his cheek, but the smell of alcohol lingers as he inhales, and he spews onto the floor, vomit joining reddened snow.

He mewls and sways forward expecting to hit the pavement, but a pair of arms wrap around him. _Too tight. No escape_.

He flinches and bucks against the arms for a way out, but they’re solid against his chest. He wails, primal and anguished, but it doesn’t make any difference. He sags against the hold, sniffling slightly until he’s aware that it’s John holding him. He whimpers and turns in the arms to bury his face in John’s neck, smelling sweat and aftershave, and he breathes. He doesn’t care, doesn’t even think that they can’t be doing this in public. Hugging in the street might give people the wrong impression. But Paul fears that if John pulls away they’ll be nothing there to keep him up. He tightens his hands in John’s coat.

It’s still too dark.

He lets himself to be lead to John’s house on unstable feet. Paul’s too jittery to sleep, and John holds him still, shushing him gently as he sniffles against his chest.

When he wakes up, there’s sun pouring through the window and John is curled tightly around his back with a hand across his stomach and Paul breathes.

It’s not as dark anymore.

\--

A man called Brian asks for them after their next gig.

Pete had quit a few weeks before, still annoyed over John and Paul sodding off to Paris without telling him, and so they’d gained Ringo as their drummer after George’s pleading.

The set goes well, and John catches wind of this unknown man asking for them and ushers them off the stage urgently as soon as the last note rings out.

Paul is stumbling quietly behind the rest of the group, and it doesn’t quite compute in his foggy head that John’s catching on to his odd behaviour. They group up in the dressing room where a man is waiting for them. He’s dressed in a suit, his hair gelled neatly to his head, and he purses his lips as the four men enter the room.

“Are you The Beatles?”

“Aye sir,” George says, and the man nods, gesturing for them to sit down on the sofa.

“I’m Brian Epstein, and I would like to become your manager.”

The first thing Paul thinks is that this man must not be from Liverpool for his accent is too posh-like to come from the city.

“Manager?”

Paul’s sure it’s John who’s talking, but he can’t quite distinguish his voice from George’s and he squints like it will better his hearing.

“Yes, I’ve heard about you. And watching you tonight proved you’ve got potential. I want to book you into a studio and record an album.”

Paul guesses his reaction is stilted because, by the time he stands up, the other three have already shaken Brian’s hand. Paul wobbles slightly, and almost misses Brian’s outstretched hand, but takes it firmly and shakes it in what he hopes is coordinated enough to be normal.

Brian smiles at him, but his eyes tell a different story, and Paul’s sure for a second he saw a hint of concern, but he brushes it off before he can worry himself about it.

When Brian leaves, Paul slumps back down on the sofa, and he can see John watching him from the corner of his eyes.

He doesn’t dare meet his stare.

\--

He comes home one day to a foreign car outside his house, and he steps inside to be faced with his Auntie Jin. She kisses him on the cheek with a wide grin, fussing over him as he places his bags down in the hall, and the smell of her perfume masks the alcohol stench that coats the house.

What surprises him even more, is when his father steps out of the living room with his shirt buttoned up neatly, looking as though it’s been ironed, with his glasses placed firmly on his nose and his hair smoothed and looks as if it’s well kept. It’s a mirror image of the father he’s lived with for the last six years, and he finds it funny in a sickening sort of way how his father can go from a reckless alcoholic to a gentleman in such a short amount of time. He supposes she's there to help him prepare for the upcoming trial. It had been postponed on the grounds of him being 'not of sound mind', which Paul thinks is stupid because when is his father ever not drunk.

“I’m taking yer father back up north with me for a while lad.”

That explains why he’s dressed so tidily. He wouldn’t want the rest of the family to know that he’s a jobless old man that can’t care less about his kids unless it concerns him.

Father of the year award will probably go to him, he supposes.

He watches them drive away with a sadistic smile, the house empty save for his brother who’s locked himself in his room, and Paul shrinks back inside with the hopes that his dad won’t come back.

\--

“I’m moving out.”

It takes Paul a minute to register what Mike’s said, and he tears his eyes away from his glass to look at his brother. Mike frowns at him and scoffs.

“Don’t act surprised, Paul. I’m eighteen an’ got a girlfriend an’ I’ve saved enough for us to get a flat by the docks.”

Paul didn’t know he’d even got a girlfriend, nevermind that he’d obviously got a job to save up so much money. Paul feels foolish, like he’s let his brother down immensely, but all he can say is ‘ _okay’_ because it’s the only thing he can muster in his clumsy thoughts.

Mike pats him on the shoulder briefly, and Paul goes to pour himself another glass but a hand around his wrist stops him.

“Stay off the drink Paul. Yer gonna end up like da.”

He lets Mike guide his hand back down so the bottle rests on the table before a hand pats his cheek and then he’s alone.

He didn’t think it would hurt so much, but he still sees Mike as his baby brother, not an eighteen-year-old with a life of his own. A life that doesn’t include Paul.

Paul slumps back in his chair, eyes drooping as they linger on the liquor bottle.

 _Yer gonna end up like da_.

It sits in the forefront of his brain like a never-ending mantra and a laugh bubbles from his throat. It’s funny because he’s been told his whole life he’ll end up like his mother.

It doesn’t matter anyway, he thinks.

He’s dead either way.

\--

“I’m sorry Johnny.”

He’s not even sure if John’s picked up, but he mumbles quietly against the phone anyway, hoping that John will answer.

“Paul, what’s goin’ on?”

 _Ah, so he’s picked up_. The sound of his voice is enough to set Paul off again, and he mumbles his apology like a litany of words that only serve to prove to himself that he actually means it.

“Paul.”

It stops his head from spinning, and he sways slightly, sat only half on his arse at the bottom of the stairs. He’d been sat there for a while, the company of the liquor bottle by his side, and he had a brief thought that the hidden razor in the bathroom seemed the best idea. He tried to get up multiple times but relented to stay sitting by the phone in hopes that he’d just die of alcohol poisoning instead. It's not that he wants to die, not truthfully. He’s just so sick of waiting.

“I love ya, Johnny. I love ya.”

John’s sigh is tinny over the speaker, and Paul desperately tries to keep himself sitting up.

“I love ya too Paul.”

Paul topples over, slouching into the carpet with his face mashed against the floor, the phone loosely by his ear.

“Paul, don’t drink anymore alright?”

“‘Kay Johnny.”

“I mean it, Paul.”

John’s voice is stern, the sort of tone that would make Paul comply instantly, but the alcohol is making his lips numb, and it feels so much easier to just _let go_ , succumb to the pressure that’s stepping on him from a great height and just give up. He so desperately wants to give up. And in his drunken mind, it seems like the right thing to do.

So he does.

He wakes up again, only to the feeling of someone dragging him up the stairs, hands under his armpits, and he tries to speak. A thick gurgle comes from his throat, and he can just about hear the person behind him.

“C’mon Paul. Stay awake.”

 _John_.

He briefly wonders why John is in his house and why it smells like sick, but he can’t seem to get his lips to work to ask him, and he feels himself slump forward more, the fingers tightening and digging into his arms.

By the time his mind has caught up to what’s happening, he feels the spray of cold water hit him, and he gasps, his eyes flying open.

John is above him, shoving him further under the water, and Paul weakly tries to fend him off.

Arms wrap around his middle, pulling him into a sitting position whilst holding him securely under the water. His head lolls backwards, landing on something hard which he thinks must be John’s shoulder, who he now realises has climbed in to keep him under the water.

“C’mon Paul ya need to stay awake.”

A hand is raking through his soaked hair, and Paul can feel the water cling to his eyelashes. He blinks them a few times, groaning as his body becomes more sober and shivers at the cold, and he can feel John’s hold loosen before the tap is turned off.

John is gently tapping his cheek and Paul realises he’s closed his eyes again. He pries them open, and John flattens his palm against his cheek, patting it silently.

And then he’s been hauled out of the tub and he’s still shivering and finds himself tucked in a towel as John sits him down on the closed toilet seat.

John squats down in front of him and gently moves Paul’s fringe from his eyes and tuts when Paul gives him a lazy smile.

“I told ya not to drink Paul.”

Paul lowers his eyes, too ashamed even in his drunken state to look at John, and mumbles a small “‘ _M sorry_ ”.

John draws out a sigh before he tugs on Paul’s arm to get him to stand up, and he follows John on wobbly feet into the bedroom.

Paul sits quietly on the bed, watching as John strips him and puts him in new, dry clothes before John does the same to himself.

His hair is still damp, but he can’t find it in himself to care, and lets himself be pushed down and covered by the duvet. John joins him after turning out the light, and Paul rolls over to press his cheek against the side of John’s chest. John doesn’t say anything but moves his arm to wrap around Paul, and splays his hand across his back.

Sleep comes easily for Paul, and he lets himself be pulled into a restless darkness whilst John stares at the ceiling, holding him tighter.

When Paul wakes up he’s alone, and he’s sure John’s gone. Had enough of his shit and left. He whimpers as the loneliness starts to eat at him, and the throbbing in his head makes him nauseous. He crawls out of bed slowly, taking his time as his joints creak, and he stands puzzled for a while when he realises he can hear the sound of running water.

Either John’s still here, or he’s left a tap running.

Paul hopes it’s the former, and quietly pads out of the bedroom towards the sound.

He finds John in the kitchen standing over the sink, and Paul only realises what’s making the sound when he takes another step forward.

 _His alcohol. Down the drain_.

The colour escapes his face and he stumbles over to John, desperately trying to grab at his wrist though John shakes him off. Paul doesn’t relent, and grapples at John, trying anything to get him to stop.

“Johnny please,” Paul says, pleading as he grabs at John’s arms. John just stays still, unbothered by Paul’s actions, and eventually shakes out the rest of the bottle, placing it down before turning to the other man, and Paul struggles against his chest before his energy leaves. He slumps against John and sobs, the kind of cry that’s raw and eats you alive. Paul lets himself be held as John lowers them to the floor where he’s able to hold him better and Paul’s legs aren’t sliding against the tiles in an attempt to keep himself upright. Paul cries against John brutally, his chest heaving as he grasps at John like a lifeline. John grips him tightly, and Paul can hear him trying to soothe him quietly, and it’s like he’s back in Paris when John just can’t take it anymore and he clings to him with hushed words.

_It’s okay. I’ve got you._

The liquor burns his nose, and he stifles his breath by moving his face to John’s neck.

The smell doesn’t leave. It’s like it’s tainted the very part of him he wanted to keep for himself. Away from John and Mike and George. Away from his drunk father.

‘ _I’ve become him_ ,’ he thinks, and the tears stain his face like some sort of proof that _yes, he is his father_. His mouth is numb and he feels his strength leave, overcome by the irrational fear that he’s become what he promised himself he’d never be.

John is stroking his back softly now, a slow pace that Paul could probably turn into a melody if he could just even _think_. But he can’t, and so lets himself be dragged up for the second time in the last twelve hours, and John takes his shaking hand to lead him to sit in the living room, before disappearing back into the kitchen.

Paul picks at his nails and wipes a hand over his face with a sigh. His chest is on fire, and he stifles a grimace with a cough.

John walks back in, a glass of water and a paracetamol that Paul accepts gratefully before he sits across from the younger man with his legs crossed so that he’s facing Paul dead on. Paul’s sets the glass aside and relaxes back into the sofa, feeling John’s eyes practically drill into him.

“I know yer mad at me.”

“Understatement.”

Paul drops his eyes and takes a deep breath, fiddling with the loose thread on the sofa.

“‘M sorry.”

“I know.”

Paul sniffs and he feels John crawls over to be closer to him, though he doesn’t make a move to make contact with him.

“Ya need help, Paul. An’ I don’t know whether I can give ya that.”

Paul nods, and John reaches up to brush his thumb against Paul’s jaw softly.

“This can’t be good for ya. Yer gonna end up dying of this rather than yer heart Paul.”

“‘M gonna die anyway.”

At this point, he doesn’t even care how he goes, because he knows it's going to happen sooner rather than later. Whether by the lack of a sufficient heart or the poison from a bottle or from the risk of his own hand. He knows he’s not said it out loud, but John’s hand drops from his face to instead grasp his hands in his own, squeezing them almost too hard.

“Don’t talk like that. Don’t rush yer death jus’ ‘cause ya know it’ll happen quicker than everyone else. Ya can’t live like this.”

Paul nods again, though he’s not quite sure he believes John’s words, and he gladly let himself be taken into John’s arms, slumping against his chest with a stuttered breath.

“I don’t want ya to live like this Macca.”

Paul doesn’t say anything and instead mushes his face against John’s chest, who sighs and threads a hand through his hair lightly.

“At yer next check-up, promise me you’ll tell them about the drink. And the drugs.”

Paul doesn’t move, and John gently pries the younger boy away from him so that he’s looking at his face. Paul’s fringe lies like a mask, covering red-rimmed, wet eyes. John makes a sympathetic noise high in his throat, and brushes his thumb over Paul’s forehead, softening the worry lines.

“Promise me, Paul.”

Paul looks up, brown meeting hazel, and nods.

“I promise Johnny.”

 _He doesn’t mean it_.

John gives a cracked smile and brings Paul closer, brushing their lips together lightly with long-awaited reassurance.

\--

_“I don’t know how long I’ve got left, Johnny.”_

John falls quiet, and Paul only knows he’s heard him when the hand tightens in his own.

_“I know.”_

\--

They’re only given two days of studio time to complete the album, and Paul decides not to drink or take any prellies before they go. He spends the whole time jittery and his voice cracks a few times and he sometimes muddles up his strings, but it’s worth it when he tells John and gets a large smile in response. John’s eyes reply like a thank you, acknowledging that Paul’s trying. Because he _is_ trying. It’s just a lot harder than it he thought it would be.

Over the two days, they finish with fourteen completed songs. Most of them are covers, but they manage to include a few of John and Paul’s songs when Brian compliments how they sounded so lovely on stage.

Paul realises there’s a shift in the band dynamics when they share the studio, for it becomes them all as a group, a unit for a better word, rather than just JohnandPaul and George and Ringo. They all contribute to the tracks with not only their instruments but also on ways they can improve or sound different, and it makes the band a lot more effective than it was before.

Ringo sulks for a while when George Martin, their producer, decides he doesn’t trust him to drum on the singles and calls in a ‘professional’, so to speak, to do it for him, leaving Ringo to rattle the tambourine in a strop as the others play. Paul feels sorry for him, as he’s already the new guy which must be hard enough trying to fill in Pete’s shoes. He thinks Ringo’s doing a great job and is proving that he is a good drummer, even though they mostly knew that anyway from watching him play with Rory back in Hamburg.

By the second night when everything is finished recording, Brian enters the room with a proud smile.

“You’ve done it, boys. You’ve got yourself an album.”

It’s something Paul and John had dreamt of since that stupid fate in Woolton, and they meet each other's eyes happily. Paul knows if they weren’t in public he’d already be crushing him in a hug.

“I think we should celebrate,” George says, and Paul’s smile falters slightly. He wanted to get through the two days without a drop, but if he goes to a bar he won’t be able to stop himself.

“I think me and Paul are gonna go home. Tired an’ all,” John says, clapping Paul on the shoulder, and Paul couldn’t be more thankful.

George and Ringo decide to go without them, and with a final word from Brian telling them they’ve got a gig at the weekend, Paul and John go home to Paul’s house because they know it’s empty.

Paul lets them in with trembling hands, and he allows John to lead him up the stairs to the bedroom. He’s pushed against the wall, hands roaming over him as a mouth covers his own. Paul sighs into the kiss and lets John’s hand snake up under his shirt to squeeze at his hips as his lips move to mouth under the shelf of Paul’s jawline. Paul moans, deep in his chest, and lets his head hit the wall behind him as John grinds their hips together in one fluid motion. Paul starts to fiddle clumsily with his shirt, and soon enough John’s doing it for him with precise fingers until his upper half is naked, and John makes a satisfactory hum at the sight of him. There’s another kiss, pressed flush against his lips, and he parts them to allow John’s to explore his mouth with fervour. His bottom lip is pulled between John’s teeth, and he whines before his lip is let go and he’s being pulled over to the bed.

“I’ll be back in a minute. Take yer trousers off.”

Paul doesn’t ask where he’s going, and instead complies with John’s instructions, leaving him in just his y-fronts. When John comes back in, he’s got two glasses of water in his hands, which he puts on the bedside table carefully, before stripping off himself and getting under the covers.

Paul makes a confused noise, but John gestures for him to do the same, and so Paul does. John instantly kisses him, though it’s more sweet than sexy, and he wraps himself around Paul, tucking his head against Paul's cheek.

“I thought we were gonna have sex.”

John’s muffled laugh filters through the air, only causing Paul to frown more.

“Horny bastard.”

Paul pouts and wriggles slightly despite John’s words, but the older boy doesn’t move.

“Ya need sleep. An’ so do I,” John says, and Paul can only sigh and shift so that they’re face to face, and John kisses him again softly.

“I’m proud of ya y’know.”

Paul frowns, and he feels John’s fingers trace over his bare chest, landing heavily on his hips.

“Ya didn’t drink or take the pills for two days, Paul.”

Paul only then realises that it was just a big of a deal to John as it was for him, and smiles lovingly as the older boy brushes his nose against his.

“You’ll get better y’know.”

Paul doubts that. He can practically taste the whiskey bottle under the bed, and if the alcohol doesn’t kill him, he’s sure his heart will give up at some point. He doesn’t answer and instead moves down slightly to hide his face in John’s chest.

He doesn’t want John to know he’s no longer the only thing he thinks about.

\--

The sound of church bells elicits a pain in his chest, and he doesn’t know if it’s from his heart or from watching John walk back down the aisle with his new lovely wife on his arm.

 _Wife_.

He knows why he’s done it. He would’ve done it with Dot if she hadn’t lost the baby. Yet it still feels like John’s took a dagger to his heart and twisted it, shredded it into pieces that are too little to pick back up and place together. He fears there’ll be a part missing, that he’ll live the rest of his shortened life with only most of his heart, but not all.

 _But not all_. Because one part belongs to his Johnny and there’s nothing he can do to get it back. Nothing he can do that can make it hurt any less.

And yet he understands why he’s done it. Which is why he claps, stands swaying slightly in the side aisles with a feigned grin pasted on his face like a cheap mask, and when John catches his eyes his smile falters.

_He knows._

John knows what Paul’s feeling, and there’s nothing he can do to help. Nothing he can do until they’re alone and that won’t be at least for another few days as John settles down into married life. John knows what Paul’s feeling which is exactly the problem.

Paul watches the couple drive away, long white ribbons trailing behind them, and Paul fights to not hide his face, recoil into the depths of the shadows never to be seen.

He watches the car until it’s out of sight, and he’s fervently glad there’s no reception. He can’t deal with the socialising on a day like this. So bright yet so dark.

He walks home even though people offer to give him a lift, and he’s glad that the house is empty when he finally closes the door.

 _Alone_.

He understands why he’s done it.

He just hoped there could’ve been another way.

\--

“So how is it?”

The doctor frowns at the monitor and checks through a few notes before sighing, rather loudly, and unattaches Paul from the wires. Paul worries at his lip and slips his top back on, watching as the doctor flips through his folder.

“You want the truth?”

Paul takes a deep breath and nods, and the doctor squints behind his glasses.

“You’re not doing well Paul. Is there anything that’s been different since your last appointment?”

Paul wants to cower away and tell him no, tell him that he’s fine and it must just be his time, but he wants to keep John’s promise.

“I’ve been drinkin’. More than usual.”

He doesn’t mention the preludin because he’s too afraid of the scolding he’ll get for messing with unwarranted drugs. He watches as the doctor sits in the chair opposite him, a hand rubbing at his jaw.

“You’re not doing yourself any favours. Keep this up an’ I give you about four months.”

Paul’s nearly sick.

“Only four months?”

“If you're lucky.”

He wonders what he’s going to tell John, and he panics more at that than at his shortened death sentence.

“Look, quit the drink and take these pills instead, but it looks like surgery is the only thing that’s going to extend your life.”

“Surgery?”

Paul’s heard about people that went under the knife and never came back, or were left worse off than they were before. He had surgery a few times as a kid, though they were minor compared to this, and Paul starkly remembers waking up from them like someone had chopped him in half. He doesn’t want to take the risk, especially so close to the album release when he hopes that it’ll help their career kick-off.

“There have been a lot of new advances since the ones you had as a child Paul, and there’s a better chance of you living if you go through with it.”

Paul shakes his head, and the doctor sighs again before handing him a small leaflet, which Paul guesses holds the gruesome details. Whatever the doctor tells him, he’s not going to do it. He doesn’t want to risk everything he’s waited so long for. He gets the pills and gets up to leave, the doctor’s voice stilling his movements.

“Think about it, Paul.”

It's not enough to make him change his mind, and he leaves mourning the loss of future years.

\--

He brings the bottle to his lips, but a hand stops it, and he looks over to John who’s shaking his head discreetly.

The others don’t seem to notice, which Paul’s glad of, but he grimaces and lets John take the bottle from his hands.

“So do ya think the album will be good?”

George is speaking, but it's drowned out by the throbbing in his ears, and he clears his throat quietly, squinting in concentration whilst the Christmas lights shine distorted in his view.

“How should we know. S’not out yet is it?” Ringo says, and Paul watches as he tosses his own bottle of vodka to George who chugs two gulp fulls.

A glass of water is pushed into Paul’s hands, and he looks over at John and smiles gratefully, though his eyes still land on the liquor by John’s leg. It seems John notices, for he places a hand on his knee and rubs his thumb gently in a vain attempt at comforting him.

“I think we should make a toast,” George says, and he frowns as John laughs.

“Why the hell would we do tha’?”

“For luck,” Ringo replies, tossing a wide smile to George who nods at his response.

“To next year. May it be filled with hot sex and money.”

They chorus a few cheers, holding their glasses up and clinking them together, and Paul sips at his water envious of the other three. John pats his knee, and Paul’s just glad he doesn’t know that he might not even make it through the new year.

\--

A month goes by and he starts to feel it. Every move is bone-crushingly painful, and he masks it with jokes and smiles, and the odd bottle when John’s not looking. But he knows John’s on to him. He knows there’s something wrong, but Paul always pushes him off with the reply of it being _‘just a cold_ ’, but it doesn’t seem to satisfy John’s worries or the fact he can still smell liquor on Paul’s breath.

John’s at his house most days, the others spent with Cynthia, and Paul’s glad he so often around. It means he’s not sat in the house alone.

He’s thankful for it, until one Friday when John finds the leaflet. Paul’s sat in his room with his guitar in his lap when he hears John run up the stairs in a raged stupor which causes Paul to set his guitar aside almost instantly.

“What’s this?”

Paul had been looking through it last night and must have forgotten to hide it back behind the broken cupboard in the kitchen. His eyes widen and they drift from John slowly to the leaflet clutched in his hand like a blackbird struck mid-flight, and he claws his mind for an answer, anything that will calm him down.

“John-”

“No Paul what aren’t ya tellin’ me? Why ‘ave I found a fuckin’ leaflet tellin’ ya to have surgery? Ya told me you were fine.”

John hasn’t moved from his place in the doorway, and Paul doesn’t make an attempt to rise from the bed. Instead, he bites his lip and lowers his eyes. He should have told him sooner.

Truth is a sharp knife, he knows. Because a sharp knife does better work than a dull one and is safer. But the easiest way to do it is to get used to the blunt knife before you pick up the sharp one. The sharp knife has the potential to cut deeper, but the force needed to cut with a blunt knife can cause a much deeper wound if you slip. So really it’s about choosing the lesser of two evils. It’s easier to lie, but ultimately, he’s now realised, it’s far worse than telling the truth.

“I’m not fine.”

He says it simply, almost innocently, like a child who’s mother has ignored him and his father’s taken up residency as a cold nightmare, and he hears John make a pained noise high in his throat like a cry for help.

If only there was ever such a thing.

“Tell me what’s goin’ on.”

Paul doesn’t move his eyes from the floor, but shifts slightly up the bed and John takes it as his cue to sit next to him, though he doesn’t touch. Their legs don’t brush, and there’s no gentle stroke of a comforting hand.

Paul breathes deeply, fiddling with his cold, discoloured fingers in his lap before replying.

“They told me four months. An’ it’s my fault because of the drinkin’ but I couldn’t stop myself and they said without the surgery I won’t live any longer than that.”

There. He’s said it. And he can feel John tense and shake with unwilled fury, but Paul can’t say anything that will comfort him.

“I should’ve told ya sooner,” he says, like it will solve the knots of trust between them.

“Fuckin’ hell Paul,” John spits through clenched teeth, though he doesn’t move. His hands clench and unclench in his lap, and Paul can hear him sharply intake a breath.

“When is the surgery?”

“I’m not havin’ it.”

It’s the last straw for John, and Paul watches as he evidently breaks. His hands go to his face, rubbing at his head before he stands abruptly, and Paul winces at the sound of splintering wood and cracked glass.

“So yer just gonna die, is that it? Yer just gonna decide that now’s a great time and leave me?”

Paul stands up weakly, eyes glimmering as John’s foot collides with the table leg in the corner.

“I jus’ don’t trust them. I don’t wanna wake up an’ be worse off than I am now.”

“How can ya be any worse than ya are now Paul?” John seethes, stalking over to him in one swift movement.

“Ya can hardly stand, ya don’t eat and ya look like you’ve gone two rounds in a scrap from how grey and blue yer skin looks.”

John moves closer, placing his palm flat against Paul’s chest.

“How can anything be possibly any worse than this?”

\--

Paul feels something tap his thigh under the table, and he looks over to John, but his partner is nodding along with the ongoing conversion, though with a small smirk playing on his lips.

They’re at a meeting about the upcoming release of their album, and quite frankly it’s boring all of them except Brian, who speaks to the producer with enthusiasm and interest.

Paul flicks his eyes over to the other two bandmates who look as if they’re having a silent conversation, and Paul briefly wonders what they’re talking about before there’s another tap to his leg.

He’s on better terms with John after having a few weeks pass of building up the trust again, though it seems like John is still holding a grudge against him, which Paul guesses is probably about the surgery, and so therefore never approaches the subject. John makes the hints here and there that he’ll be fine and he should just go through with it, but Paul’s decision doesn’t budge.

The phone rings loudly in the corner, and Paul twists his neck behind him to listen as Brian stands to answer it. Brian only says so much as a ‘ _hello’_ before he goes silent and lifts the phone away from his ear.

“It’s for you John,” he says, and John frowns and stands up to take the phone off him. Paul watches him frown for a while before his face splits into a smile, and he slams the phone down before pulling Paul out of his chair.

“We’re goin'. Won’t be long. Don’t wait for us,” he says, pulling Paul with him towards the door, and he hears Brian splutter.

“But we’ve still got things to go through.”

“Cheerio my good chap,” John says over his shoulder before he and Paul exit the room, and Paul thinks what the hell could’ve happened to put him in such a good mood.

When they arrive at the hospital, Paul watches as John legs it to the maternity ward, and Paul desperately wants to catch up to him, but he finds his legs won’t co-operate and lands himself in a chair in the waiting area before he can topple over.

The woman behind the desk is staring at him, and he ignores her in favour of trying to get his breathing back under control and get the feeling back in his feet. He feels like a letdown, because after a while John comes back out to find him, and Paul feels utterly useless.

“Ya alright?”

Paul nods and lets John pull him up before they stumble down the corridor onto the ward.

Cynthia is in the bed nearest the door, and Paul watches as John’s eyes brighten, and he looks himself to find a small bundle in her arms. He smiles and sits carefully next to John by the bed, where the baby is instantly passed to him, though John’s hand remains carefully on the baby’s back. The baby looks a bit weird with its head a funny shape and still a little yellow, but Paul can’t help the overwhelming emotion of content bring a smile to his face. He lifts his finger, and the baby grabs hold of it, its grasp small and light. Paul looks up at John, who’s looking over his shoulder with a smile.

“What’s it called?”

“Julian,” Cynthia replies, and he nods before drawing his attention back to the little baby in his arms. He savours the feeling, not knowing when he’ll be able to do it again, and he has a momentary thought that he wishes it was his and John’s baby. Impossible as it may be, he thinks he and John would’ve made great fathers together, and he curses himself for ever dreaming of such a thought. Even if the world was perfect, and John and Paul could be together legally, he wouldn’t be there to celebrate the child’s first birthday.

He strokes Julian’s head fondly, before John’s taking him back from his hands and into Cynthia’s, and Paul turns his head away slightly when John and Cynthia kiss. It’s only short, and soon John’s tugging on his arm to lead them back out of the hospital.

They take it slow, John’s hand a firm barrier on his arm, and by the time they get back into the car that’s secluded all the way back in the car park, Paul’s a few shades paler than he was before.

“You okay?”

Paul turns to him in his seat and smiles. “He’s beautiful Johnny.”

John kisses him softly, _slowly_ , and the world falls away, the feeling of warm skin under fingertips and salty tears meeting their lips becomes awe-inducing. Paul wants to pull away before he loses himself but he can’t seem to because John won’t let him, like his body is the source of passion that John can’t get enough of, and Paul gives himself over gladly.

\--

When they hear of ‘Love Me Do’ reaching number seventeen in the charts, a huge party is thrown by Brian at his own house, and the Beatles arrive to at least over a hundred guests. Paul feels sick, and he wobbles out of the car, only steadied by John’s hand on his back ready to catch him. When Paul’s regained his sense of balance, he smiles at John gratefully, and John lets go before they make their way into the house.

The smell of alcohol hits Paul instantly, and his eyes linger on the tray of drinks by the door. Before he can stop himself, he picks one up, holding it to his eye-line.

“Paul-”

“Jus’ one. I promise.”

John doesn’t seem too comforted at Paul’s words, but nods anyway and grabs a drink of his own. Paul drinks it rapidly, quicker than he would normally, and John side glances at him before a large man blocks him from Paul. A hand is thrown in his face, and Paul shakes it, hearing something about ‘ _how well the album has done_ ’ and that they ‘ _can’t wait for the next one_ ’, but Paul promptly excuses himself when he realises he has no clue what the man’s saying. He briefly wonders if any of them know about him and John, and the paranoia of people looking at him is telling him it's true. They do know.

_A silly thought from a silly boy._

He blearily wipes a hand at his eyes, vaguely aware of people calling his name, but he excuses himself to the bathroom on shaky legs, the glass still held tightly in his hand.

\--

“Have ya seen Paul?”

George frowns at him and shakes his head, and John makes a frustrated noise and bites at his lip, looking for any sign of his lover. It seems as though Paul had vanished earlier on, and for the life of him, John can’t find him anywhere. He’s checked the bedrooms, and all the rooms downstairs, weaving in between clusters of guests congratulating him.

“I can’t find ‘im. Anywhere.”

John thinks he must look frantic, and watches as George looks around too.

“Have ya checked the bathroom?” George asks, and John nods, his eyes still lingering on the crowd.

“Both of them?”

John stills at that and turns to George. “I thought there was only one upstairs.”

“No there’s one down ‘ere too.”

It’s enough to get John’s hopes up, and George follows him to the bathroom at the end of the corridor. John knocks the door loudly, half expecting for some stranger to shout back at him, but there’s no reply.

“Paul?” he asks, knocking again. When there’s still no answer, anxiety starts to eat away at his chest, and he shoves at the door with his shoulder until it flies open, revealing Paul on the floor. His eyes are half-lidded, his head pressed flat against the tiles, and there's blood pooling by his arm. It smells like sick, and John all but falls onto his knees trying to locate the source of bleeding, hoping to god it's not from his chest, and finds himself almost glad when he realises a glass must have smashed in his fall. There’s a large gash on his arm, and John shouts at George to go and get help. He manages to get Paul into a sitting position, leaning him against the wall. He doesn’t even know if he’s awake, though his eyes are moving which he hopes is a good sign.

“Hey, Paul. What’s happened?”

Nothing but a groan escapes past Paul’s lips, and John takes it as a sign that he must be somewhat coherent.

“What hurts Macca?”

John knows full well that Paul’s not drank enough to be drunk, so there has to be something else. Something he’s missing.

“Chest.”

Its whispered, almost whimpered, and John lets Paul’s head fall against his shoulder, his hand moving to rub at his back.

George is back with a towel, and John watches as George wraps it tightly around Paul’s arm, and it worries him how Paul doesn’t make a sound. He moves his hand to push back on Paul’s shoulder so he’s back leaning against the wall, though now Paul’s eyes are closed and he slumps to the side, and John stops his body from hitting the ground. There’s nothing he can do but hold him until the paramedics get here. There’s nothing he can do because there isn’t anything anyone can do. He lets himself bury his face in Paul’s hair, inhaling the smell of ‘ _paul’_ before George is nudging him to make him aware that there are other people around. He pulls back regretfully and sniffs, moving Paul’s hair from his face.

He hopes this isn’t the last time.

\--

“Paul?”

Paul isn’t quite sure where he is or why he’s got his eyes closed, but he knows who’s speaking to him.

 _John_.

The pain hits him as the second thing for him to realise, and he struggles for breath for a second when it feels like he’s been hit by a truck, but he can’t seem to move, his body a dead-weight.

He manages to pry his eyelids open, letting the assault of the bright lighting sting his eyes before he moves them to John. John who’s sat by his side. John who’s watching him with a perturbing stare.

John who’s _crying_.

Paul frowns and lifts his hand with all the strength he can muster, though it looks weak, nothing more than his wrist lifting from the blankets. It seems to do its job though and attracts John’s attention, who slides his own fingers between Paul’s, interlocking like two souls forming one.

Paul clears his throat, and a glass of water is pressed to his lips quickly. He sips at it for a second before relaxing his head back against the pillow.

“Why are ya crying?” he asks, like he doesn’t already know, and John mewls, moving his face to press his cheek against Paul’s hand entwined in his own.

“This is it, Paul. You’ve got to ‘ave the surgery.”

John’s voice cracks slightly, broken soul visible through fissures of a broken man. Paul wants to tell him it’ll be okay, but he knows how this ends. He’s prepared for it his whole life.

Paul feels like a man who has a great fear of drowning whilst swimming. He’s done this to himself. He’s put himself in this situation entirely on his own not knowing if he’ll be able to stay afloat.

He should’ve just had the surgery when he was told. Because now facing what he inevitably thought he was willing to go through with, it seems that now faced with it, he can’t find it in himself let go.

John stops crying though the tears stain his face like proof that Paul has failed, and Paul wishes he could make him feel better.

He shifts slightly, using the energy he has, and John frowns at him.

“Come sit up ‘ere.”

John obliges but sits cross-legged opposite Paul so there’s a gap between them. Not much, but enough to make Paul aware.

Paul smiles at him, but it looks as if John hasn’t got enough in him to muster one back, and Paul feels himself sigh. They’re silent for a while, and John looks down at the sheets away from Paul.

The silence claims them in a melancholic embrace, and Paul feels like he’s been here before, yet there aren’t any words he can say to differ from the last. The only thing that does is the outcome because he doesn’t think he can live this time.

Paul isn’t sure what to do. John is still sat with his legs crossed in front of him, but his gaze has moved back up to Paul’s face and there are tears pricking at his eyes whilst he stares at Paul dejectedly.

“Don’t cry,” Paul whispers, barely moving closer to wipe his thumb across John’s cheek.

“Please don’t cry.”

Paul starts to choke up and he places both of his trembling hands on John’s cheeks, watching as the older man lowers his eyes. There are tears rolling down his face, and Paul can’t say or do anything to stop them.

Because it’s _his fault_. Instead of trying to make him feel better, he inches forward slightly, ignoring how his body screams at him to stay still, and pulls John against his chest, feeling him heave a sob and cling to him tightly.

“Please stop crying Johnny,” he whimpers, but it doesn’t seem like John hears him. Why would he, when the fear of losing your lover is too overwhelming, too incomprehensible to even think about.

“I’m sorry,” Paul whispers against John’s hair like a shattered misery, his wall he had so carefully built imploding under the strength of his guilt and the fact that he knows this is it. It feels like they’re back at Forthlin Road, John becoming tearful when Paul tells him that no, he’s not going to be here forever. That John will have to live without him. But now it’s as if it’s real. Like he really has to say goodbye to John.

John moves, his face brushing against Paul’s until their lips meet, and Paul presses back almost desperately.

John tastes like tragic love in the shadows of forests and the regretful glimmer on a mourner’s coat. Its surprises Paul sometimes how much emotion can be pulled between a kiss, and he wishes they had the magic power to make everything better like he used to tell Mike when they were kids. As they break away from each other, Paul realises he doesn’t want it to stop. He doesn’t want it to be their last one. And as their lips brush again he says ‘ _I’ll do it’_.

John pulls away slightly, his eyes flicking over his face as if he thinks Paul is going to change his mind. Paul smiles at him, the kind of smile that usually induces one from John, and he’s not disappointed. 

Their lips meet again with a wondrous smash of colliding teeth and plump lips muddled into one.

\--

He’s sent home with two days bed rest, the appointment being booked for three days time. Paul’s not thrilled by this, knowing he’s going to have John mothering him for two days, but there’s nothing he can do about it. Apparently they need a surgeon from London to do it, but he’s only free at the end of the week.

Paul lets himself be wheeled out of the hospital by a kind nurse, who hands his medication over to John as well as a few papers about the surgery. He’s pulled out of his chair carefully, and John’s hand wraps around his waist to keep him up before they head to the car waiting for them. Brian steps out of the passenger side and helps John get Paul into the car, and Paul feels stupid. He wishes everything can go back to the way it was before, when he wasn’t so reliant. He smiles thinly as John gets into the back next to him and rests a hand on his thigh.

When they get to Paul’s, he’s helped into the house and straight to the bed before he can get a word in.

“Is there anythin’ else I can do?” Brian asks, and Paul thinks he’s been incredibly helpful since he’s only been their manager for not even a year yet, and Paul knows this can’t be part of the deal.

“No Brian I think we can do the rest,” John says, and Brian nods at the two of them before turning to leave the house.

“Thank you, Brian,” Paul says, annoyed that his voice sounds so weak, and Brian smiles kindly at him before he leaves.

John disappears shortly after he’s settled Paul into bed, and he returns with a tray of drink and snacks.

“Thought I’d keep ya company,” he says, setting the tray on the bedside table before getting into the bed with Paul. They’re both propped up into sitting positions by many pillows, squeezed tightly together in Paul's single bed, and Paul feels John’s hand grab at his own.

“D’ya remember when I nearly smashed that window throwing rocks at it that one time?”

Paul frowns, confused, and turns his head towards John.

“Yeah. Me da would’ve had me for that if it had broken.”

John laughs, squeezing his fingers, and shifts closer to lie his head on Paul’s shoulder.

“D’ya remember when ya gave me a blowie in Hamburg for the first time?”

“Why r’ya bringing that up now?” Paul asks, smiling when John just shrugs.

“S’nice memory.”

“Yeah, for you.”

John gasps, feigning shock like he’s the damsel in distress in a pantomime, and all Paul can do is laugh at him cheekily.

“Look I’d never done anything like that before-”

“Well, that’s not exactly true. I know that you’d had some fun with little Paul before.”

“Sod off,” Paul laughs, but John does no such thing and instead kisses at his jaw lovingly.

They spend the first day like that, remembering memories from a time together that seems like decades ago, ignoring the dark twilight hanging over them, waiting to be acknowledged.

 _But you know I know when it’s a dream_.

\--

The second day doesn’t go as smoothly and leaves them mostly in a gust of disconsolate yearning for future years that may never come.

Paul wonders what John will do without him if the surgery fails. Maybe he’ll buy a house with Cynthia and become an artist. Maybe he’ll buy a farm and move away from the bustling cities to raise his son. Maybe he’ll divorce Cynthia and become an estranged father, only to bury himself in years worth of guilt and longing. Paul hopes that the latter won’t be true. He doesn’t want to leave if John is going to wither without him.

It’s dark, the light from the streetlamp filtering into the room, pointing at John who’s asleep next to him. He looks at John, how his eyelashes flutter with convoluted dreams that stay hidden in faraway places in his head, and how his lips purse every so often and his eyebrows twitch. He examines his face like it’s the last time, and Paul’s thoughts remind him that this actually _could_ be the last time. Because tomorrow he’ll be back in the hospital, prepping for a run he’s not sure he’s going to win.

He sighs, watching John’s chest move rhythmically, and he hopes John won’t hate him if he dies. He would hate to leave knowing John despised him for it, though he knows that if he does it will be out of fear of having to spend the rest of his life alone. Because Paul knows John doesn’t love anyone like him. No one will ever be enough to fill the gap if he leaves.

He knows because it’s the same for him.

He can’t even start to comprehend what John must be feeling, and Paul doesn’t want to even attempt to empathise. It’s a type of pain that’s too much it overwhelms you. Its the type of pain people describe as hurtful, yet feel the need to say it will get better. But surely, he thinks, the only way for the pain to lessen is to forget. An impossible task for an incomprehensible thought.

He closes his eyes and takes John’s hand into his own, feeling the older man stir next to him. It isn’t enough to settle him, to make him relax enough to rest, so he slides his body closer, feeling as his joints protest and his chest heaves, and lands with his head on John’s chest.

“Paul?”

He guesses he must have woken him up, but he doesn’t move his head and instead hums a reply.

John sighs, shakily and desolate, and places a hand in Paul’s hair, threads the dark tresses between his fingertips.

Its enough now, Paul thinks, and he closes his eyes again.

\--

The smell of antiseptic always makes him feel sick.

He’s been placed in a bed, strict instructions not to eat or drink until after the surgery, and he groans of boredom as he waits for visiting hours.

John comes into the room first, placing a kiss to his cheek before anyone can see, and George follows in after with Ringo, both wearing wide grins, though it's obvious its there to cover other emotions lying underneath the surface. Another person slips in, and Paul looks over only to realise its _Mike_. He’s got a new haircut, and there’s a layer of stubble lining his cheeks as if in an attempt to make himself look older. What irks Paul is that his brother looks sheepish, like he doesn’t think he should be there, and Paul is quick to shoot him a reassuring smile which seems to liven him up a bit.

When Paul grimaces and shifts slightly, the conversation flowing without him, he watches John’s hand dance up the bed to his lap like a spider, and Paul is quick to carry the movements on up his chest. He needs John to know he’s fine.

They spend the short hour talking between the five of them, and George and Ringo are telling him how Brian mentioned something about a tour if he gets better, which he briefly thinks would be unfortunate if he didn’t make it, whilst Mike talks about his girlfriend called Angela, and how she’s the love of his life. Paul’s glad he’s found someone, and it makes him look over at John with a fond smile.

 _‘Love of my life_ ’, he thinks, because Paul’s sure he’ll never love anyone ever again.

George, Ringo and Mike leave when the visiting hour is up, and he gets a hug off each of them. He guesses they’re scared that it will be the last time they see him, and so make the most of it whilst they can, and he smiles at them gratefully before they disappear into the depths of the hospital with heads hanging heavy.

He’s alone with John, who the nurses have allowed to stay with him overnight after pleading with them for an hour, and the older man rests his chin on the bed. Paul smiles at him though his lip quivers slightly, and he watches as John frowns and raises his head.

“I don’t want to die.”

It’s the first time he’s spoken it; the first time he’s acknowledged the fear that’s bared down on him from such a young age for so long, and he can feel his outward persona crack with defying pain, so he heaves a breath in hopes it’ll keep him afloat as everything sinks around him.

_Don’t ever ask me why I never say goodbye to my love._

John’s face softens and he shifts upwards to cup at Paul’s jaw, a wistful glance in his eyes.

“I know.”

_It’s understood._

\--

When he opens his eyes, his first thought is that John’s smiling.

He looks at him dazed for a moment, not quite sure what’s happening, before John’s voice breaks through his cloud of confusion.

“You’ve done it, Paul.”

 _He’s done it_.

It still hurts, though he guesses that what happens when someone digs around in your chest cavity, but he can _breathe_. He blearily brings his fingers up to his eyes, and the sight of them is foreign, and he almost thinks he’s still dreaming.

They aren’t _blue_.

He practically gasps in excitement and looks over to John who takes his cheeks between his fingers, squeezing them softly.

“You’ve got colour in ya face,” he exclaims, pinching at Paul’s face. “Yer cheeks are pink.”

Paul laughs at him and shoves his hands away before pulling him into a kiss. It feels warm and it grabs him from his shocked stupor and pushes him back into reality. Because he made it. All of his fears melt away as John’s lips press against his own.

George, Ringo and Mike come by not long after with a hoard of gifts and cards, and Mike hugs him properly, for the first time in many years, though careful of his bandaged chest.

“I’m so glad yer okay,” he says against Paul’s ear, and Paul squeezes him tightly. The excitement wears off quickly, and the boys leave to tell Brian he’s okay, and John looks at him with a smile.

A few more years, Paul thinks. A few more years of seeing that smile and that face and those eyes. _How beautiful they are_ , and Paul almost wants to laugh at how afraid he’d been.

When Brian catches wind that he’s awake, he bustles into the room with a grin.

“As soon as you're healed Paul, we’ll all be going on tour.”

John practically shrieks in delight, and he holds Paul’s gaze longingly.

It’s all they’ve ever wanted. The pipe dream becoming true.

\--

As John looks over at Paul, Paul dressed in his suit and done up to the nine, completely opposite of what he looked like back in ‘58 when they first met, he realises with a thought of sadness that Paul’s still just a kid. He still sees a kid with too many tears but who gives out too many smiles, and John laughs despite himself at the revelation. He slowly approaches Paul, who has his back to him as he sits on the windowsill of the hotel room, tie hung loosely around his neck, and drapes his arm around his waist pulling him close. Paul laughs and nearly falls, but John stands against his back so that the only place he will fall is onto John’s chest. They stay there a while, watching the city of New York pass by underneath them, and John places a kiss to the younger’s hair.

 _And the morning when I first saw you gave me life under calico skies_.

Its funny, how they’ve gone from two motherless lads from Liverpool to worldwide sensations nearly overnight. It bewilders him slightly, and he feels Paul shift against him, getting more comfortable.

The city rushes beneath them, and they stand within a world of their own, and John hopes they can be like this forever. Just JohnandPaul. PaulandJohn.

Love is a funny thing because if he had a choice he wouldn’t have loved Paul McCartney. He brings with him to many emotions and too many fears. But because love _is_ a funny thing, John loves him despite it all. He knows they haven’t got forever, but the small moments will do.

_In my life, I’ll love you more._

\--

 _Fin_.

**Author's Note:**

> If you're reading this, congrats you've made it to the end ;)  
> Please let me know what you think. I'm like Tinkerbell, I need comments to live! Only joking, but like I really appreciate every comment and kudos :)  
> You can also find me on tumblr at lovely-rita-meter-maidd where I take requests, but don't be afraid to come and say hi!!
> 
> Anyways, thank you so much for reading. And if this goes well I'm thinking of writing another to see how events go once The Beatles become big.
> 
> <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3


End file.
